


Love Is Always in Style

by rainbowbaz



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow series - Gemma T. Leslie
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Workplace, Alternate Universe - Writing & Publishing, Angst, Assistant!Simon, Boss!Baz, Boss/Employee Relationship, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, London, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Simon, Pining, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Ugly Betty AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-09-15 19:17:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 39,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9252125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbowbaz/pseuds/rainbowbaz
Summary: When Simon gets offered a job at the glamorous, high-fashion Natasha Magazine, he can hardly believe his luck. But being assistant to the complicated, rude, and quite frankly beautiful Editor-in-Chief Basilton Pitch makes his job a lot more difficult than he expected. Especially when he accidentally-on-purpose gets emotionally invested in the world of gossip, scandal and family drama... and finds himself falling for his boss.(Basically, the Ugly Betty AU where Simon is SUCH a Betty.)





	1. The First Day

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Ugly Betty is such a brilliant TV show, and I've been thinking about an AU mixing the world of fashion with both Snowbaz and Baz's complicated family for a while. This is the most challenging fic I have written so far, and I've been working pretty hard on this - it's my first time writing in first-person, a chaptered fic, and also in Simon's POV, so I hope you enjoy!

My leg is uncontrollably jigging. _4:59PM_. They said that if my interview was a success, they would call me at 5PM exactly. I stare at my unlit phone screen intensely, trying to will it to ring with my mind. _Come on, phone. Just ring, please._

I can hear Big Ben chiming, which means it’s turned 5PM. Just for a moment, I stop breathing. But then the chiming stops, and my heart drops to my stomach. I haven’t got the job, have I? Yet another failed interview. _Another_ waste of time. I shouldn’t have even bothered going. Why would anyone want to hire me? Maybe I shouldn’t have handed in my resignation to McDonald’s as soon as I found out about this job…

“Fuck!” I shout, lobbing my phone across the floor in protest. My eyes scrunch up and I flop down onto the sofa, smacking a pillow to my face to try and muffle my screams. (I’ll get evicted if I get another noise complaint, and now that I’m practically unemployed, that would be the icing on the cake of my shitty day). 

But wait. I can hear something. My duck quack ringtone… oh, that’s just brilliant, isn’t it? My mind is playing tricks on me, now. Teasing me that my phone didn’t ring.

My brain snaps into action. _Shit, Simon, what are you doing?_ My phone is ringing. It’s actually ringing! There’s no time to hesitate, so I swan dive onto the floor, feeling my ribs thud against the carpet, and grab my phone, pressing ‘Answer’ before even checking the caller ID.

“Hello?” I ask, trying not to sound too out of breath.

A friendly, feminine voice replies on the other end of the phone. “Good afternoon. Is this Simon Salisbury?”

“Speaking.”

“Hello, Simon, this is Agatha Wellbelove. I’m the receptionist at Natasha Magazine.”

 _Oh my God._ I leap up from the floor, fixing my hair, as if Agatha can see me. 

“Sorry for being a couple of minutes late, Simon. We were slightly delayed in reviewing your application.” She sounds so calm and collected, as if she isn't the voice telling my fate.

“Oh-no-yeah that’s completely fine. No worries.” My heart is beating so hard, it feels like it might shatter my ribcage.

“Wonderful. On behalf of the whole team here at Natasha Magazine, we would be delighted to offer you the position of Assistant to the Editor-in-Chief, Mr Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch. Do you accept?”

My eyes widen and my brain doesn’t have time to compute this before I’m shouting out “Oh my God. Yes. Yes, I accept!” I can feel my pulse racing, and I’m so high on this adrenaline that I can’t even bring myself to cringe at how brilliantly unprofessional I’m being.

“Excellent. I will email you the paperwork, and I'll see you tomorrow, 9AM sharp.”

“Okay. Wow. Yes. Thank you. Thank you so much.” Just as I’m about to hang up and start dancing around my flat, Agatha continues talking.

“Oh, Simon, one more thing?”

“Yes?” (Anything. I will do anything. Even if Agatha said I would need to remove a kidney to get this job, I would accept.)

“Mr Pitch values punctuality very much.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t be late.”

Of course, I won’t be late. Why would I be late to the greatest opportunity of my life? (But just to make sure, I set 16 alarms on my phone, and put a sticky note on the fridge that reads: _New job!!! Be there for 9AM sharp!!!_ ) 

With all this organisation, what could go wrong?

\-----

Of course, I’m fucking late. The Tube will be the end of me, I swear. I’m almost growling as I finally descend from the Tube station. Why would they organise a strike, on my special day? Are they trying to spite me?

I slightly relax as I finally see the towering, intimidatingly modern building in front of me. _Grimm-Pitch Publications,_ the lettering reads. Gulping, I walk through the glass doors. This is it. This is the start of everything I have ever dreamed of. I can finally have a platform to build my career.

Inside, there is a tall, glass elevator, to reach the different levels of different magazines. Panicking, I realise that I have no idea where I’m even going. I check my watch. _9:05AM._ Shit. My hand begins to sweat around my briefcase handle.

 _Fuck it,_ I might as well just get into the elevator. I stroll in, trying to look professional, but thankfully I’m not alone – there is a serious looking woman stood next to me, with the wildest, curliest red hair I have ever seen in my life, and cat-eye glasses framing her friendly face. God, that hair. It has the kind of volume I just want to reach out and touch. Except I won’t do that, because I’m not a creep, and I’d probably get thrown out. 

“Um.” I clear my throat, trying to sound natural. “Hi, there.”

The woman looks startled that I am talking to her. “Hi?” I feel like I should apologise, for some reason.

“Sorry. Um. Which floor is Natasha Magazine on?”

She immediately perks up, her entire demeanour changing. Her friendly face puts me at ease. “Oh! You must be the new assistant!”

“Yeah. Yeah, I am! Are you Agatha, the one I spoke to on the phone?”

“No, she’s my best friend. I’m Penny, I work in accounting. I’m going up to Natasha, so you can just come with me. It’s Floor 23, by the way.”

“Floor 23?” Jesus, this place is tall.

“Yep. And your name?”

I look down, blinking at her, and realise that Penny has had her hand held out for a handshake ever since she introduced herself.

“Oh, shit, sorry, I forgot.” I take her hand, shaking it perhaps a little too vigorously. “I’m Simon. Simon Salisbury.”

“Nice to meet you, Simon.”

The elevator pings, and Penny immediately starts walking towards the reception desk, beckoning me to follow. A blonde, petite, frankly ethereal receptionist is sat behind the round, white desk. 

“Agatha, I’ve got your trainee!”

 _Oh, it’s Agatha!_ I run forward, holding out my hand, ready for that vital handshake. 

“Agatha. Great to meet you. I’m Simon.”

She smiles at me, but for some reason I feel judged, as she looks me up and down from head to toe, before finally shaking my hand. I can feel her manicure against my palm. “Lovely to meet you, Simon. I hope that Penny didn’t scare you too much.”

“Ha! As if!” Penny pushes her glasses back up to the bridge of her nose, before checking her watch and swearing loudly. I realise that I want to be her friend. “Shit. I’d better run. See you guys later!”

I open my mouth to say goodbye, but Penny is already gone. She’s like a whirlwind. Agatha smirks, yet I can see a warm twinkle in her eye as she watches Penny run away. But she snaps out of it as she turns back to me, with her business face on. “Right. Simon. As the leading receptionist and main assistant, I have slight responsibility over you. And I can see I have a lot to deal with here.”

“Pardon?” She’s caught me off guard.

“You were late. It’s not too much of a big deal, seeing as you are training with me, but if this were a normal day, and Baz was in a bad mood, he would fire you on the spot.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” I look down at my shoes, feeling shame rise in me. “It was the bloody Tube. Always making me late.”

“Whatever, Baz doesn’t like excuses.” Agatha steps out from behind the desk, revealing a perfectly styled outfit. She is an intimidating vision. I feel inferior compared to her. Looking around me, I realise that everyone here is beautiful. I should have expected it, really, getting a job at a fashion magazine and everything, but my jumper suddenly feels ratty and too-big. I don’t fit in at all. I try to push the thought to the back of my mind, because Agatha is offering to show me to my desk, and it would be rude to be absent-minded. I can’t afford to make any mistakes. 

She is confidently striding ahead of me, and I’m struggling to keep up. This office is the most modern building I have ever seen, and I’m not sure if I will ever find my way around. My mind drifts to thinking about my new boss – Mr Pitch, or Baz, as Agatha calls him. Why does she call him that? He’s one of the richest men in London; it seems improper, even on my standards. “So, is it quite casual here? Does everyone call him Baz?”

Agatha’s face becomes one of sheer panic, and she stops at a halt, cornering me. She smells like roses. “Oh, God no. We all call him Baz behind his back. But you do _not_ want to call him that in person. You call him Mr Pitch. Nothing else.”

She continues to walk, but I am still confused. “Why not Mr Grimm-Pitch? That _is_ his name.”

“Do you not read tabloids?” Agatha sounds genuinely bemused, and I go to defend myself, but she keeps talking. “Baz hates his father. Although he is technically employed by him, he doesn’t like using his name. He is completely loyal to his dead mother, Natasha. She used to run this magazine, it’s why it’s named after her. It’s sad, really.”

“Oh.” I didn’t realise that everything would be so complicated. I clearly have a lot to learn, and I’m hoping that Agatha won’t ditch me before I know anything.

“Yeah, there’s a lot of family drama. You have to be careful, here. You can’t big up Mr Grimm in front of Baz, but you also can’t slag him off, because the big man technically employs all of us. He’s the CEO of this fucking _powerful_ company. He signs our paychecks. Even Mr Pitch’s.”

I try to stash all of this information in my brain, but it’s already getting jumbled. I wish I didn’t have to know any of it. Agatha brings me to a desk, mostly empty apart from a computer and some files. “I couldn’t give you a tour, because that’s what happens when you’re late. You’ll have to work it out yourself.”

“Sorry, again.” I feel like she doesn’t like me.

“No, it’s cool. This is your desk. Baz’s office is right there. You should probably go in to see him now.”

I look forward to where Agatha is gesturing. And… _wow._ There he is - the man himself. Baz fucking Pitch. Photos really don’t do him justice. Even behind the glass, I can see his broad shoulders, his black hair tickling the back of his neck, his cheekbones so sharp that he could kill a man with them. (Maybe he’ll kill me.) The nerves start to kick in, as I already feel intimidated from 30 feet away.

Agatha starts walking away, but she swivels back around before I can truly start to panic. 

“Oh. Simon?”

“Yeah?”

“Sit with us at lunch. I know first days can suck.” Agatha is smiling, and I feel calm. Maybe she does like me. Maybe this will be okay. 

“Yeah, thank you!” I defiantly throw my briefcase onto my desk, claiming my desk, and grin at her. “I’d like that.”

Agatha smiles at me warmly before walking away. But it’s okay. If Agatha can like me, then so can Baz. I mean, Mr Pitch. (I’ll try not to disrespect him.)

I turn to face the glass screen, behind which Mr Pitch is sat in a perfectly fitted black suit. This is where the real work starts.

Oh, God, but what if he hates me? What if I get fired instantly? But I guess there’s no point in worrying about that. I have to go in there at some point, and Mr Pitch will be more likely to hate me if I’m even later than I am already. I remember what Agatha said… Mr Pitch values punctuality. 

It’s time to go in.

I smooth down my jumper, hands shaking, and slowly walk over to the glass panelled door. I’m so scared, it’s as if there’s a monster inside. He’s just a man, I remind myself. He’s just a very rich, very powerful man.

I raise my knuckles to the door. _Knock-knock._

“Yes.” It’s my cue to enter. I push away the fear rising in my chest, and walk in.

“Hello, Mr Pitch, it’s great to meet you!” I stride over to his desk, my hand held out for a handshake. Baz looks up and raises an eyebrow at me, and my stomach drops. I’m definitely being too formal, seeing as Baz is currently sat back on his chair, looking like the epitome of cool, with his feet up on his desk, leafing through a magazine.

Baz smirks. “It’s nice to meet you, also. But who are you?” He looks down at my outstretched hand, and then back to his magazine.

I feel embarrassed, dropping my hand and rubbing it against my arm, as if that’s what I was meant to be doing in the first place. “Um. I’m Simon Salisbury.”

“Okay.” He seems to be enjoying this, I realise. “But what are you here for?”

“Oh. Um. Sorry Sir, I’m –”

“Don’t call me Sir.”

Shit. “Sorry. It’s just... I’m your new assistant. Simon Salisbury. That’s me.” I’m cringing so hard at myself, my hand might burst from how hard it’s gripping my arm.

“Oh, so you’re the new assistant.” Baz throws down his magazine, sitting down properly in his chair. “Take a seat.”

As I sit down, I notice that he’s a bit young to be the editor of a magazine. He doesn’t even look that much older than me. But I guess that must be what Agatha was talking about – he is employed by his father. He didn’t get the job by chance, he inherited it.

“So, Simon. What time is it?"

“About half nine, Mr Pitch.” I feel like I’m talking to a school teacher, or something. It’s weird.

“Just checking you know how to read a clock. You're late." 

My stomach drops. "Sorry. It was the Tube."

"Whatever. My father is expecting you. He wants to meet with you. He’ll probably warn you about how much of an asshole I am, or something like that.” 

He is staring at me. My neck begins to sweat. “Oh. Really?” Why would the fucking CEO want to meet with me? An assistant?

“Yes, really. I’m sorry that you have the terrible misfortune of meeting him. Go, now. And come back when you’re done.”

I spring up from my seat. “Right, okay. Thank you.” Jogging out of the door, I realise two things. Firstly, I’m jogging. I need to stop that. Secondly, I have no clue where I’m going. I jog back to Mr Pitch, who is smirking at me now, probably because I look ridiculous. “Sorry, Mr Pitch, where am I going?”

“Very top of the building. Where else would the obnoxious bastard be?”

“Thanks.” I run out, fearful that I’m late, and find the nearest elevator. To the 'obnoxious bastard' I go.

\-----

I close the wooden door behind me. “Mr Salisbury.” I hear a voice say, and I swear to fucking God that the fireplace in his office just burst into flames on cue, as if he's a comic book villain, and I'm walking into his lair. I turn around, and Mr Grimm is sat at the largest desk I have ever seen, looking positively regal. It’s as if he’s the King of England, or something, the way he’s sat. I see what Mr Pitch means, about his father being obnoxious.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr Grimm.” I say, walking over to his desk. He beckons for me to take a seat, and I do so wordlessly. I try not to let my eyes wander, but it’s difficult when there are engraved gargoyles staring at me from his desk, and he is taking notes with a fucking _quill._

“I’m not going to bother with pleasantries. I have only one message to carry to you, and I wish to make it as inexplicably clear as I can. Understood?”

My stomach twists. “Yes, of course.” I dig my fingernails into my leg to stop it from shaking.

“I don’t know how knowledgeable you are about the state of my family, but it’s rather well known by the gossip columns that my son, Basilton, is what you may call a ‘playboy’. This is not an image I wish for our company to project. I am especially certain that he does not tarnish the view of Natasha Magazine – it is our best-selling publication, renowned in the industry for its glitz and glamour. It is not known for being trashy.”

“Okay.”

“This is why you are important. Your job as Basilton’s assistant means that you are actively involved in all aspects of his life. Please ensure that he is more occupied with work than play.” He pauses for a moment, and I gulp. I have never felt more intimidated in my life. “Mr Salisbury?”

“Yes?”

“I can appreciate that you are a handsome man. Can I just verify that you are not… homosexual?”

 _What._ What the ever-loving fuck is happening right now? “No, I’m not.” (I mean... I'm not _technically_ lying.)

“Good. I wouldn’t want my son’s flirtatious nature to distract you from your work.”

 _Oh._ Oh shit.

“Okay. Great. Don't worry about it.”

“Thank you, Mr Salisbury. You can go now.”

I stand up with such force that my swivel chair flies backwards, and Mr Grimm looks at me as if I am positively stupid. “Thank you.” Walking as coolly as possible out of the room, I wonder – what the fuck have I gotten myself into?

\-----

Mr Pitch looks up as I walk into his office. I sit down without being asked to. I want to get comfortable, familiar, rather than awkward. He doesn’t look like he cares.

“How was my father?”

“He was okay. Scary, but okay.”

His jaw clenches. “He’s a dick. Probably wanted to scare you off.”

I smile, looking down at my feet. Part of me is nagging to tell Mr Pitch what his father said, but Agatha told me to be careful about that. He keeps talking, anyway.

“I’ll give you an easy job, to help you find your way around.” I look back up at him. “Usually, you should do this as you come into work in the morning. It should be the first thing you do.”

“Okay.”

“Go to the canteen, and pick me up a bagel, a sour cherry scone, and a coffee.”

“How do you like your coffee? Black?” I mentally shoot myself. Why the fuck would I assume he drinks it black? I mean, it would fit in with his personality… but I really shouldn’t imply that my boss is an asshole in front of him.

Mr Pitch smirks. “I actually like it obnoxiously sugary.”

Fuck. “Okay, great. I’ll go now, then.”

I can feel him looking at me as I walk out of the room. Probably judging me, for being such an idiot. But my mind clears of any anxieties as I navigate myself to the canteen, and the most divine smell hits me.

Freshly baked scones. Melted butter. I can feel my mouth salivating, and my stomach growls. Skipping breakfast was definitely a mistake.

I walk up to the counter, trying not to look too ravenous, and talk to the smiling, rosy lady wearing an apron.

“Hi. Can I have a bagel, a sour cherry scone and a coffee with plenty of sugar, please?”

The lady smiles at me as she starts preparing the food. “Mr Pitch’s new assistant, by any chance?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Thought so. That boy likes his food to be the same every day. He’s a funny one.”

I smile. It’s weird, hearing her talk about him so casually. Calling him a _boy._ I try to engage in some friendly banter with her. “At least it’ll make it easy for me to remember his order.”

“Too right.” She hands me a paper bag and a coffee cup. “I’ll add it to his spendings, don’t worry about bringing the money.”

“Thank you!” I say, walking out with a smile on my face. But that smile turns in to a frown, as my stomach deeply growls at me, having a go at me for not feeding it. Instinct forces me to look inside the paper bag. Holy shit… there are two halves of sour cherry scones, glistening with hot butter. The kind of butter I could eat with a spoon. My brain is pushed aside in favour of my stomach, as I reach into the bag and shove an entire half of the scone into my mouth. And the taste is indescribable. It's melting in my mouth... and it's gone too quickly. I have to physically prevent myself from eating the other half. It’s the best thing I have ever tasted in my entire life.

As I approach Mr Pitch’s office, I’m not even sure if I regret the incredibly stupid move I just made. It was that delicious, I can’t even feel guilty.

I knock with great difficultly (my hands are full of amazing food) and enter, and Mr Pitch looks so genuinely happy to see me carrying food. 

“You don’t need to knock in future. Unless I’m with a client.” That surprises me. We're already overcoming some usual formalities.

“Okay, sure. Here’s your food.” I pass him the bag and cup, and try not to feel nervous as he opens it to check I’ve got the order right.

He looks up at me, brows furrowed. “Why’s there only one half of the scone left?”

 _Shit._ My stomach drops, as my brain goes through all of the different excuses I could make. But all that comes out of my mouth is a long “Ummmmm…”

Mr Pitch is just staring at me, and I realise that I’m about to get fired. I am literally going to be fired because I ate a scone. What is wrong with me?

“Is that… are those crumbs in the corner of your mouth?” He’s leaning across the desk, now, and I want the ground to swallow me up. “You ate it, didn’t you?”

I might as well be honest and be fired with my dignity in tact. “Yes.” I close my eyes and brace myself, ready for humiliation.

But then I hear laughing. Proper belly laughing. I open one eye and see Mr Pitch doubled over with laughter. What is even going on?

I am so confused that I start laughing, too. And we’re laughing together. I never thought I would see such joy in Mr Pitch's eyes. I look down at my shoes, feeling bashful.

“You’ve got balls, Simon Salisbury. I’m glad that you enjoy Cook Pritchard’s cooking. She’s a fucking saint.”

“It was the best scone of my life. I regret nothing.” I grin at him, and then my stomach rumbles so loudly, there's no way he wouldn't be able to hear it. Mr Pitch looks as if he might choke with laughter.

“Go on, then. You’re clearly hungry. Go for your lunch break.” He’s looking at me with these warm eyes, and I think I might cry with relief. 

“Thank you, Mr Pitch,” I sing, practically skipping out of the room. As I approach the canteen, I can see Penny and Agatha waving at me from their table.

_Maybe I can belong here. Maybe I already do._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! This chapter is a bit of an introduction - there will be more Snowbaz in the next chapter, I promise. More chapters are on their way, so feedback would be appreciated!
> 
> tumblr: https://rainbowbaz.tumblr.com/


	2. The Model Fitting

Every morning for the past few weeks has been the same. I get to work, go straight to the canteen, make small talk with Cook Pritchard as she prepares Mr Pitch’s food, and then bring it to Mr Pitch, who frowns at my outfit of the day and eats the food in front of me, whilst I go through his itinerary. He then leaves to go and do something serious, and I sit at my desk, either talking to clients on the phone, emailing, running errands, spinning around on my swivel chair (It’s fun, okay?) or googling Mr Pitch. (Yes, really. Googling him is a genuine part of my job description. I have to forward anything that makes him look bad over to his publicist. Vain bugger.) 

This morning, however, is going a little differently. I greet Mr Pitch with a jolly “Good morning!”, drop the bag of food on his desk, and plonk myself down on the chair opposite him. I don’t expect him to reply – he usually just grunts at me, and tucks in to his bagel, watching me with beady eyes as I read out his itinerary.

“So, today’s plans.” I start, grabbing my file – in the midst of which I can feel Mr Pitch’s eyes staring a hole into my cheek, distracting me enough that I drop my pen on the floor. He closes his eyes, presumably in disgust, and my face flushes a flustered red as I lean down from my chair, scrambling around for it. (It’s my favourite Biro. There’s no way I’m losing it.)

I finally grab hold of it, springing up in my seat with a grin on my face. “Got it!”

He opens his eyes. “Oh, thank God. I was really worrying about your chewed-up pen.” His voice is laced with monotonous sarcasm, as he takes another bite of his bagel, staring at me in a way that somehow tells me to hurry up. It’s weird, this telepathic connection we’ve got going on, but I pay attention to his gaze and continue.

“Okay. So… you have an advertising meeting with Chanel at 9.45. Then a creative boardroom meeting at 11. And then…” I squint at the page, confused. “I don’t know why, but it’s been pencilled in that you need to go to the model fitting at midday. The fashion department should be taking care of that. I’ll cross it off, your day is looking busy –”

“Don’t cross it off.” Baz buts in, and I notice it’s the first time he’s properly raised his voice at me. It’s weird, he almost sounds panicked. I look up at him, narrowing my eyes. He takes a deep sigh, shoulders going limp as he leans back in his chair. “It’s a male model fitting. I’m hoping it will spice up my otherwise dull day. As my assistant, you should be booking me any opportunity to stare at attractive men that you can find.”

My heart sinks as Mr Grimm’s words flash through my head. I have to keep an eye on Mr Pitch. He’s a man magnet. A ‘playboy’. If he flirts with these male models, one of them could leak a story on him being a perv. Which would tarnish Natasha Magazine… or even worse, get me _fired._

“I’ll go with you,” I say. His head snaps back up, and he is looking at me as if I’m mad, which is justifiable. I have a feeling that people don’t often mess up his plans. He’s definitely not used to having a nosy assistant.

“Why would you do that?” Mr Pitch sounds half confused, half amused. I don’t know what to tell him.

Be careful, Agatha told me. Loyalty is important at Natasha. Of course I work for Mr Pitch, but it’s his father that is paying my bills. How am I supposed to justify going to the fitting without sounding like I’m spying on him? 

I try to be clever about it, but I’ve never been very good with words. “I… I need to do my job, Mr Pitch. I’m expected to go to these things. You know.”

He is looking at me as if I’m speaking another language – brows furrowed, lips slightly hanging open. I’m beginning to think that it is his default facial expression whenever I speak. Yet he _still_ manages to look attractive. 

It’s not like I fancy him or anything. It’s just – he’s – he’s some fucking rich, attractive snob. And I’m not used to it yet. I’m not used to being around so many beautiful people. Especially him.

Mr Pitch breaks me out of my trance. “No, I don’t know. Please, enlighten me. Why do you have to abandon your duties and come to the fitting?” He leans back in his chair, threading his fingers together and smirking at me, waiting for a response. I gulp. I feel like he’s a lion, and I’m a gazelle. Wait, not a gazelle – I’m not graceful enough. I’m more like… a pig. Or something. (What I’m trying to say, is that he is the predator, and I am the prey.) And I don’t know what to say to him.

“Well…” I sigh, rubbing my hand against my forehead. I’m visibly struggling, here, and Mr Pitch is enjoying every second. 

_Oh, fuck it._ I might as well be honest. “What I’m trying to say here, is that I have to keep an eye on you. And I think you know why, Mr Pitch.”

He raises a perfectly arched eyebrow at me. It hits me that Mr Pitch is not used to not getting his own way. He is definitely not used to his own employees standing up to him. And I can’t tell whether this will gain me respect, or get me fired.

Leaning forward in his chair, hands hitting the desk, he lowers his voice at me. It feels more alarming that when he was shouting. “I don’t know what my father has told you, Salisbury,” He clenches his jaw. “but I do not need a babysitter. I’m twenty-four years old.”

“I don’t mean any disrespect, Mr Pitch, but I’m twenty-two. I’m just as grown as you are. And I’ve been told to keep an eye on you, so that’s what I have to do.”

Mr Pitch stands up, a slight pout, like a child having a tantrum. “Go and do some filing, or whatever you even do. I’m going to my meeting.” And then he just walks out, leaving me sat in his office. I blink, before going back to my desk and grabbing the paperwork I have to take to accounting. Sitting at my desk feels too stifling, and I want to see Penny so that I can rant about Mr Pitch without the risk of being fired.

\-----

“Hey, Simon!” Penny smiles as I walk into her office cubicle. I drop my paperwork on her desk and throw myself down on the chair next to her. Putting my head in my heads, I groan, and I hear her sighing at me. “What’s wrong with _you_?”

I bring my head up, resting my elbows on the desk and cupping my face with my hands. “Mr Pitch is exhausting,” I whine, leading Penny to ruffle my hair as I scrunch up my face.

“Aaaaw. Someone needs a cup of tea and a chat. Come on, then.” Penny stands up, making me frown.

“You can’t just go for a break. Don’t you have work to do?”

“Nah, it’s okay. Just stay there for one second. Micah, over there, has a crush on me, so I’ll sweet-talk him in to doing my work while I’m gone.” She smiles at me smugly, as she walks over to him. I shake my head. I didn’t know that Penny could be so scheming…

Oh, _wait_ , now I can see Micah. He’s _cute_. And are they – are they flirting? 

“Come on then, Si! Micah’s holding the fort!” She shouts, and I just give an awkward nod to Micah as if to say _sorry_ , before scrambling out of my seat and catching up with Penny.

We start to walk. “You fancy Micah,” I say, with a Mr-Pitch-style smug on my face.

“Yeah, I know.”

I stop in my tracks. “What?” How is she so matter-of-fact about it?

She rolls her eyes and keeps walking, and I follow, mouth gaping open. “I know that I fancy Micah. It’s not exactly a secret.”

We reach the canteen, and Penny begins to order us tea and cherry scones. I whisper to her as we wait. “You’re so confident about it! How long has this been going on?”

“Like months, Simon.” She laughs as she takes our tray and sits down in the corner with me. I blink at her, slightly taken aback at this information. “You’ve been here for a week. You’re not expected to know all of the gossip.”

I deflate slightly. It’s things like this that make me feel like I haven’t made any progress. This is supposed to be the start of my career; I’m supposed to be making an impression. “Shit, Penny. You’re right.” I frown, biting in to my sour cherry scone. It makes me feel a little better, but I still continue to complain, crumbs flying out of my mouth. “I’m never gonna get up to speed with this.”

Penny crinkles her nose at me. “Drink your tea and shut up.”

I swallow my mouthful, pouting. “Hey!”

“I mean it! Don’t stress out, you’ve got me. I’ll catch you up on the gossip.”

“Thanks, Penny.” And I mean it. Without her and Agatha, I’m not sure whether I would keep my sanity in this building of perfect, conniving people.

“No problem.” She takes a sip of her tea, narrowing her eyes. “So, what’s going on with Baz?”

I groan. “Ugh, it’s not just him. It’s this whole thing. This whole…” I flap my arms about, to try and emphasise my point. “This whole loyalty thing. I don’t know what to do.”

“Right. What’s going on?”

“There’s this model fitting, and Mr Pitch wants to go, but I said that I would have to go with him, because I’m supposed to keep an eye on him. And he _whispered_ to me, Penny, but it was, like, an _aggressive whisper_. He was all like, ‘I don’t need a babysitter’ and I was like ‘Well I have to go with you’, and then –”

“Simon.” She interrupts me. “You don’t have to go.”

“But, I do, Penny, I –”

“No, you actually don’t. Mr Grimm can’t blame you for Baz just… being himself. You can’t tame a playboy.” Her eyes are wild, looking at me as if I am crazy – and when even _Penny_ thinks I’m mad, I know that I’m being unreasonable. But I can’t stop. I’m just _so afraid_ of being fired.

“But Mr Grimm made it sound as if I’m responsible for Mr Pitch’s legacy. The _magazine’s_ legacy. I have to keep an eye on him.”

“Well, if you feel that strongly about it, go.”

Did I just hear her right? “What?”

“Just go. You don’t have to ask permission. If you think it’s what you have to do, then do it, Simon. Stop worrying so much.”

I smile sleepily at her. “God, I wish I was an accountant. You have it so easy.”

“Hm.” She looks at me as if she’s about to kill me. “I don’t think you would handle having to confront Baz Pitch about unnecessary spending on his company card.”

“Touché.”

\-----

Pretending to be busy is a newfound skill of mine. I have been sitting at my desk, refreshing news websites for articles about Mr Pitch, for over an hour. (The reality is, I’m waiting for him to collect his things before the fitting. I _have_ to go with him.)

The sound of footsteps snaps me out of it. I can see Mr Pitch, striding in to his office to collect his clipboard. Autopilot brings me out of my seat, standing defensively in front of his doorframe. There’s no way for him to escape now. 

He almost walks in to me, so I say “Mr Pitch,” as authoritatively as I can muster. He raises an eyebrow at me.

“Yes?”

“I’m going to the fitting with you. There’s no question about it.”

“Jesus, Salisbury.” Mr Pitch is rolling his eyes, now, but I stand my ground, tightening my jaw. We’re standing too close for comfort, and my neck is aching a bit from looking up at him. (He smells like cedar and bergamot, and it’s making me light-headed. I can’t let him see that.)

“I have to go with you! It’s my job!”

He sneers. “I already told you, I can go by myself. Honestly, the way you’re rabbiting on about this, anyone would think that _you're_ the one that wants to go and check out the male models.”

My cocky side takes over before I can control it. “How do you know I don’t?”

“Because you’re straight.”

 _Ha._ “Well, how do you know that?”

He looks baffled. I’ve fucking _baffled_ Baz Pitch. “Because… you made an agreement with my father. He doesn’t want me having an assistant I can… seduce.”

“Actually, that wasn’t the agreement.” I’m getting overconfident, now, and I can’t tell whether it is a mistake. “The agreement was that I’m not allowed to be ‘homosexual’. Which is kind of disgusting of him in the first place, and I could sue your father for discriminatory hiring. But I won’t, because he probably has a really great lawyer.” Mr Pitch scoffs, but still looks unusually confused. I continue. “What I’m trying to say is that I’m not going against the agreement. I’m bi. He never said that I have to be straight.”

My heart starts to thud as Mr Pitch takes a step back. But then he lets out a huff of humour, and his mouth quirks slightly. I watch him take another step backwards, dragging a hand over his face, as if in disbelief. And then he smiles at me, almost as if he’s _impressed_ , and I can’t take my eyes off him.

“You..." He smiles down at his feet, before looking up at me, with warm eyes. "Fine. Let’s go.”

“What?”

He walks over to the doorway, so I move, and then we’re walking together, and it’s strange. But he isn’t going the right way.

“Mr Pitch? The fitting isn’t this way.”

“We’re taking a detour. I’m getting you a sour cherry scone. You deserve it for being such a clever little shit when it comes to my father.” My stomach lurches in pleasant surprise, and I laugh, and notice how Mr Pitch’s mouth isn’t in its default frown – he looks almost content.

It suits him.

\-----

It’s an amusing sight, really. Mr Pitch’s jaw is slightly slack, as he hands me the clipboard, going over to talk to the half-naked models waiting to be fitted.

I’ve heard a lot about his ‘player’ reputation, but never actually seen him in action. And now… now I can see it. He’s smiling sweetly at a shorter blonde, with possibly the most chiselled face I have ever seen, and even more chiselled abs. They’re all beautifully intimidating, and I’m trying to enjoy the sight of them.

But amongst the tiny shorts and pouted lips and broad shoulders, there’s just… Baz. Mr Pitch. There’s something more striking about him, especially amongst the models. They make him look short, I notice, but more confident – he keeps licking his lips, squaring his shoulders; matching up to them. He isn’t tense – he is lanky and sweet and comfortable, and charmingly over-dressed in his black suit and tie. It’s nice to see him so loose and carefree, but it makes me wonder… why can he be so cutting towards me? I could count the number of times he’s smiled at me on one hand; even on one hand that has had three fingers cut off. The realisation stings.

I shouldn’t even be thinking about my boss like this. It’s… wildly inappropriate. I'm kind of a professional. 

I shouldn’t be here. I don’t want to keep an eye on him anymore.

I drag my feet over to Baz, tapping him gently on the arm. He turns around, mid-laugh, and his face goes all strained when he sees me.

“Just letting you know that I’m going.” I hand him the clipboard, and he barely even acknowledges me. He just takes it and turns his back on me. I feel slightly deflated as I walk out of the room.

If I can’t even get Mr Pitch to like me, what’s the point of trying _so hard_ to be a good assistant?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's taking me a while to get used to writing in chapters and in first-person, so I hope this was okay! A LOT more Snowbaz is in the next chapter, I promise. Feedback would be appreciated! <3
> 
> tumblr: https://rainbowbaz.tumblr.com/


	3. The 2AM Call

Now that it’s been a month, I feel like I’m finally getting the hang of this. When I get Mr Pitch’s breakfast, Cook Pritchard has it ready without me even having to ask, and when I pick up the phone, people know that it’s me rather than the old assistant. It’s a good feeling. I’m actually getting good at my job.

Which is why it comes as a slight shock when I see Mr Grimm wandering around the Natasha offices. In my entire month here, I have never seen him outside of his office. It’s strange – everyone seems as if they are on red alert, working twice as hard, and looking twice as serious. It makes me feel as if I should be doing the same, so I speed-walk over to my desk, and realise that Mr Grimm is not simply ‘wandering’ – he is walking with purpose… right over to Mr Pitch’s office.

“Mr Grimm!” I say, plonking myself down on my swivel chair, balancing myself by holding on to the desk. I don’t know why, but I feel like I need to say something, rather than ignore him. Mainly to help keep up my good impression.

He turns around, looking as much like a comic-book villain as I remember. I can’t stop staring at his widow’s peak. “Working hard, I hope, Mr Salisbury?” It’s weird – it sounds like it should be a jokey question, but his voice is monotonous. He looks bored before I have even replied.

“As always, Mr Grimm!” I’m trying to go for the whole charming-but-cheeky approach, but Mr Grimm doesn’t take it. Not a hint of amusement passes through his expression before he swiftly turns around and strides into Mr Pitch’s office. Well, I guess I can’t please everyone.

Mr Grimm almost looks out of place here. Which is strange, because he does _technically_ own the magazine. But everything in this office is so modern, so clean, so geometric – and he looks like he belongs in a haunted house, far away from London. I can’t help but wonder – what is he doing here? He usually calls people to his office – a man like Mr Grimm doesn’t go to people, people go to him.

I watch Mr Grimm approach Mr Pitch’s desk, and how Mr Pitch’s face tightens into a scowl as a reflex. I can’t hear anything, but the tension is tangible. I have never seen Mr Pitch filled with such hatred – and that’s _really_ saying something, because he doesn’t exactly have a track record of kindness.

I’m desperately trying to read their lips, but I’m struggling, narrowing my eyes and desperately trying to make sense of their argument. Mr Grimm turns to face my direction, so I quickly pick up the phone to make it look as if I’m doing something other than spying. It would be a pretty tragic way to get fired.

Pressing the phone against my ear, I watch them closely. Mr Grimm is definitely having a go at him about something. It’s weird, seeing Mr Pitch look so vulnerable, with someone else towering over him. As soon as Mr Grimm finally storms out, looking unsettlingly composed, Mr Pitch lets out a roar of “Fuck!” and swipes all of his paperwork off his desk, collapsing onto his chair and putting his head in his hands. The sudden silence is unsettling. I feel as if I should go and give Mr Pitch a hug. He is a picture of distress – the newfound state of his office a reflection of his anger. I can’t just _leave_ him like this.

I decide to check on him, awkwardly stepping into the office. Mr Pitch doesn’t even flinch at my presence. “Mr Pitch?” I look down at my feet, keeping my distance. What am I supposed to do in this situation? I never got training for what to do with a distressed boss. “Is there anything I can do?”

Mr Pitch’s head snaps up at my words, elbows still on his arms. I notice that his eyes are slightly red, like he’s been rubbing them to stop himself from crying, and his hair isn’t as perfectly groomed as it usually is. I almost prefer his hair a bit messy. I want to run my fingers through it. (I need to stop with these thoughts. I’m a _professional_.)

“Actually, yes.” He abruptly stands up, looking slightly manic. “Cancel my meetings. Cover me for the day. I’m getting out of here.” He grabs his blazer from the back of his chair, and only then I realise that this is the first time I’ve seen him without it – I can see more of his arms through his shirt, and it’s slightly distracting. (Stop it, Simon.)

He darts out of the room before I can say anything else, and I just stand and watch him leave. I have no idea where he’s going, but I predict that there will be men involved.

My heart tightens as I review the mess of paperwork around me, and I hastily crouch down and tidy it all up, leaving it in neat piles on his desk. I guess that’s my job – cleaning up Mr Pitch’s mess, both physical and emotional.

\-----

I’m having one of those nights where I tell myself that I’m going to get to sleep after this episode, but Netflix says ‘Playing next episode in 10 seconds’, and I’m so comfortable that I don’t have the willpower to move from under my blanket. There’s this new vampire show on, and I can’t stop watching it. (The lead is hot, okay?) I can’t even feel guilty about it being 2am, despite the fact I have to be awake by 7.

My eyes begin to lull slightly in the middle of an episode, when the quack of my ringtone startles me so much that my laptop drops onto the floor. “Fuck,” I mutter, scrambling around for my phone under the blanket.

The glare of my phone screen in the darkness is so bright that I have to narrow my eyes to adjust to it. It tells me that I have an incoming call… from _Baz Pitch?_

 _What?_ Mr Pitch is calling _me?_ At 2AM? He never calls me. I quickly answer it, expecting it to be an accidental dial, because he wouldn't _actually_ want to call me – he always looks like he wants to bang his head against a table whenever I communicate with him.

“Mr Pitch?” I ask, slightly nervous for the response. I can hear loud music, and people shouting, and singing, and the general thud of bass. He’s at a nightclub. The sudden noise is so deafening that I have to move my phone slightly away from my ear, wincing.

“Hello? Is this Simon?” A voice replies. It's not Mr Pitch. (It’s too high pitched. And he would never call me Simon.) My heart jumps – is he in trouble? What’s happening? Is he okay?

“Yes, but who’s this? What's happening?” The panic is obvious in my voice. It’s impossible to hide. My delirious 2AM mind has already decided that there is no other possible option than Mr Pitch being dead, and me having to arrange an elaborate funeral, before being fired, leading to my death because I won’t have the money to feed myself…

The man on the phone sighs. “Look, I’ve got your friend here. I’m guessing you're friends – you're the first on his speed dial.”

“I am?” I blink, slightly taken aback by the information. I didn't realise he even had my number registered in his personal phone. “I’m his assistant, not his friend. What's going on? Is he okay?”

“Don’t worry, he’s fine. I’m a bartender at H2O in Soho.” I know it. (It’s a gay bar.) “Your boss tried to get in, but he’s a complete mess. He can barely stand. The bouncers won’t let him in, but we couldn’t let him out onto the streets in this state.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, mate, I don’t want to call the police and make a scene. Just come and pick him up, and take him home before he gets mouthy.”

I sigh, feeling an immense serge of dread. “Fine. Okay. I’ll pick him up.”

“Great. Just say you’re here for Baz when you get here.”

I get dressed into some random clothes that are lying around my apartment before leaving. (Anything other than my checked pyjamas.) It’s an amazing irony, really, that just a few weeks ago, Mr Pitch was telling me that he doesn’t need a babysitter. And here I am.

I’m annoyed about being turfed out of bed, and I’m starting to regret answering the phone, but think on the bright side. At least Mr Pitch isn’t dead.

\-----

I’ve never been to a gay bar before. I’ve always found it too intimidating. There's something rather tragic about how my first time at one is to go and pick up my inebriated boss who hates me.

Mr Pitch is leaning against the wall, eyes droopy, looking strangely pleased with himself despite the circumstances. His gaze rests on me lazily, and I’m not sure what to do with him.

“Siiiiiiiimon,” he slurs, as if in extreme pain. I gulp. (He called me Simon.) He’s still in the suit that he was in this morning, expect his tie is missing and his shirt has been popped open at the top. I don’t even want to know how that happened. (But I can imagine a million scenarios.)

“Look, Mr Pitch. I need to take you home.”

And then he leans his head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling, and _giggles_. He fucking _giggles_. “You’re… you’re takin’ me home.”

It feels like my entire body is bright red as I realise that Mr Pitch is giggling like a schoolgirl about the idea of me taking him home. I try to brush it off. “Come on, let’s go.” I hesitantly move towards him, wrapping my arms around his side to support him standing up, and try not to scream at the contact. My thoughts are distractingly inappropriate, and I’m supposed to be a professional. (It’s not my fault that my boss is conventionally attractive, okay?) 

I struggle supporting his weight – he may be skinny, but he’s bloody tall – and stumble outside with him. His waist feels firm underneath my grip.

Once we’re on the pavement, I sit down on a bench with Mr Pitch, so that I can call a taxi. The universe is against me tonight, and there are barely any cars in sight, let alone taxis. I shuffle as far away from him as possible, avoiding contact, but his proximity alone makes me nervous.

His eyes are on me the whole time I call for a taxi, and I can hear him softly hiccupping. Once I hang up, he smiles at me. “You’re nice, Simon. You’re really nice, picking me up.” (If he keeps calling me Simon, I’m going to self-combust.)

I nod, feeling uneasy. “I know I am. I’m too nice.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I got my – my nice assistant, Simon. He’ll save the day. He’ll get me. He’ll – he’ll take me home!” He starts giggling about that again, as if it’s the funniest thing in the world, and I’m laughing, too. Because this really is a mess. We don’t even have a particularly friendly working relationship, and now I’m sat on a bench with him, whilst he’s _steaming drunk_.

“Yeah, too right, I’m always saving the day.” I sniff, smiling down at my shoes, before looking up at him. “You know, you interrupted my vampire show marathon.”

He smiles dopily. Our eye contact is warm. It’s like I’m talking to a completely different person. “You like vampires?”

“Fuck yeah. I have a bit of a thing for them.”

Mr Pitch laughs again. “Good – good to know,” he says, and I don’t have time to think about what he means by that, because the taxi has just pulled up, and I’m helping him over, opening the door with my spare hand and setting him down on the back seat.

“Budge up.” I say, and he blinks at me, as if I’m speaking to him in Chinese. His eyes are like saucers. He looks like Puss in Boots. (How can he do that? Be sinister one minute and adorable the next?) I roll my eyes, shutting the door and crossing over to the other side of the taxi, slamming the door behind me clumsily and telling the driver Mr Pitch’s address.

I turn to him, to try and keep him talking, but he’s fallen fast asleep. His jaw is hanging open, and I feel like I shouldn’t be looking, but I do. There’s something about his face in the darkness, illuminated by the streetlights and the harsh red light from other cars, casting dramatic shapes against his cheekbones. His eyelashes are fanned out and he seems soft, peaceful, vulnerable. He really is beautiful. And I know he’s my boss, and this is wildly inappropriate, but I would have to be blind not to notice how aesthetically pleasing he is.

I like seeing him like this. Under my control, for once. I feel oddly protective over him, and it’s a new feeling. It’s definitely new.

\-----

Mr Pitch hasn’t taken his eyes off me since we got into the elevator. “You taking me to my room?” He seems to have sobered up slightly, but his eyes still look clouded over, and his mouth is hanging open.

“Of course, I have to make sure you get in safe.”

“Okay,” he says, and keeps staring. I feel underdressed in my jeans and t-shirt, as if he’s scrutinising my fashion choices, but then I remember that Mr Pitch is incredibly inebriated, and fashion is probably the last thing on his mind. So why is he staring at me?

The doors open, and I step into an apartment that oozes Mr Pitch’s style. It’s got an ornate yet modern feel to it, covered in black furniture, towering bookcases and the kind of artwork you want to analyse for hours; yet it still looks lived-in, and just _Baz_. I’ve never been in a penthouse before. I can’t stop looking around.

“This is – wow. Your apartment is amazing.” I turn back at Mr Pitch, smiling, but he suddenly looks drawn into himself. Uncomfortable. I remember our relationship, his authority over me, and it’s a startling reality check. I shouldn’t be here. “Right. I should go.”

“No.” He snaps, looking at me as if he can will me not to go with his eyes.

My head snaps up. “What?”

“Stay.” Mr Pitch’s face crumbles, losing his usual composure. “I’m – fed up of being all alone.” He leans against the wall, pain coating his expression. “My dad says I’m a failure. He says I’m a failure and he’s – he’s right. I’m always lonely, so you need to stay. Need someone here when I wake up.” He shuts his eyes, and my heart is melting and breaking at the same time, because he sounds so _childlike_ , and he’s right here in front of me, letting his soul fall out.

His heartbreak works like a spell. All I can do is nod at him. “You got a sofa?”

“In my room. Yeah. I have one.” Mr Pitch presses his fingertips against his forehead, as if confused. But he can’t be as confused as I am. I have absolutely no idea what the fuck is going on.

Before I can even think about what the bloody hell I’m doing, I start taking my coat off, and follow a stumbling Mr Pitch to his room. He’s taking off his blazer, and unbuttoning his shirt, and I don’t know where to look.

And then we’re in his room, and he’s stripped down to his boxers, and he’s still looking at me. I let myself look at him, just for a moment, because he’s so drunk that he won’t remember the way that my eyes are slowly caressing the shape of his body. He just looks so beautiful right now. He’s not muscular, not even close – there’s a softness to his body that I didn’t expect. He’s usually so cold. 

But he’s not cold right now. He’s warm, and tired, and sad. And he’s not moving. I feel like if I just left him there, he would go to sleep standing up, like a giraffe. I move closer to him, knowing that it will be the death of me, and touch his bare waist, guiding him over to his bed. His skin feels _so good_ under my hand, and I push the fact that my stomach is lurching to the back of my mind.

“Come on,” I say, and sit him down on his bed. I can’t look at him anymore. Lying down on the sofa, propping a pillow against the arm, I dare to look at him. He’s sitting there, looking completely sunken in to himself, hand resting on his waist. Where I was touching him moments ago. “Go to sleep,” I say, and it’s supposed to sound stern, but it comes out soft. Gentle. I can’t help it.

He catches my gaze, and looks up at me. I hold the eye contact until he nods, swivelling himself around and tucking his covers up to his chin.

I don’t say goodnight to him. Because my heart is thudding in my chest, and I know that it would come out strained. And even if he is horribly drunk, I can’t show him that I’m weak. 

Because I am. _I’m so weak._

\-----

I wake up feeling as if I haven’t slept at all. My thudding headache makes me feel as if _I’m_ the one who is hungover. Speaking of which… I sit up, swivelling around, and see that Mr Pitch is not in bed anymore. Where _is_ he?

I slip my shoes on, walking around his apartment, trying to find him. God, it really is beautifully decorated. I’m tempted to take photos to show Agatha and Penny, but I feel like that might be crossing an unspoken line.

Just as I start to panic about Mr Pitch going to work without me, I hear the elevator doors open. I rush over, trying to remember where it is, and find Mr Pitch wearing a fresh suit, with messy hair and heavy bags under his eyes. He looks like a complete mess compared to usual, but still more effortlessly cool (and beautiful) than I could ever dream of.

His mouth is rounded in a perfect ‘o’, as if surprised to see _me_ up, like he’s the one that took _me_ home. “Didn’t expect to see you up,” he says, leaning against the wall.

“Could say the same about you,” I respond, feeling hideously casual in my jeans.

“Come on, then,” he grunts, opening the elevator doors. I blink.

“What? We’re going now?”

He steps into the elevator, holding the door open. “Don’t want to be too late.” He raises his arm, holding a coffee cup towards me, that I didn’t even realise he had until now. I narrow my eyes, taking it from him and following him in to the elevator.

“You got me coffee?” I ask, bringing the cup to my lips, and enjoying the sweet warmth that goes through me. “An interesting role reversal.” Mr Pitch is watching me again.

When he realises what I said, he looks bashful. “Yeah, I mean, I kind of wrecked your night. And I feel bad about it. Even if it feels like there is someone kicking my head right now. God, I’m so fucking hungover.”

“Anyone would think that you’re _my_ assistant. Getting me coffee.” I’m smiling. For some reason, this makes last night worth it. (As if seeing him shirtless didn’t already make it worth it.) (Shut up, _me_ , he was upset, you perv.)

“Don’t get used to it,” he smirks. Is he being… _playful?_ “It’s your reward for letting me screw over your night.” We step out of the elevator, and his eyes go wide, looking suddenly afraid. He stops in his tracks. “Speaking of screwing, I didn’t… y’know...”

“What?”

“I didn’t… try anything with you last night, did I?” He is visibly squirming, bracing himself for an answer. I feel like I’m going to suffocate.

“No. God, no.” I force out a chuckle, to relieve the horrendously awkward situation. Mr Pitch lets out a huge sigh of relief, and it makes me feel uncomfortable. Would sleeping with me really be _that_ much of a hideous mistake to him, when he literally sleeps with any man with a pulse? I remind myself of our colleague boundaries, and carry on walking with him.

“Thank fuck for that. I’m a horny drunk.”

I blush, trying not to imagine it.

He brings me out to a car, opening the door for me. I slide in to the other side, giving him room to get in. He shuts the door behind him, telling the driver to go, and turning to face me. “Buckle up.”

“What?”

“Buckle up. I’m not being responsible for your death.”

I roll my eyes at him, buckling up anyway. “They never buckle up in Gossip Girl,” I mumble, and Mr Pitch laughs. Once he finishes, there is a silence, and he looks out of the window. I remember last night, and how broken he was. My heart pangs under my chest. I don’t want him to feel lonely. He looks vulnerable, again, and there’s so much I want to say to him, but I don’t know how.

I take a breath. “You know I’m on your side, right?” I know that I should say more, but I feel like he will know what I mean. I’m on his team, I’m on his side, I’m rooting for him. Mr Grimm can go and fuck himself. I want him to know that.

He turns to me, mouth twitching up into a small smile. “Thank you,” he says, and I know that he understands me. A weight lifts off my shoulders. I finally feel comfortable around him. Working with him is going to be okay. (Even if he can be an asshole sometimes.) (A gorgeous asshole.) (He’s always gorgeous.)

_We’re going to be okay._

\-----

As the elevator pings open to the Natasha offices, I realise that we’ve never walked into work together before. And I realise that all eyes are on us. I look over at Mr Pitch, and he notices it, too.

He turns to me, visibly uncomfortable. “Look, this might sound weird, but can we pretend that everything is normal for a second? Like, can you get me breakfast?”

I nod, understanding him, and he gives me a gaze which says _thank you_ and walks off to his office. Agatha has been staring at our encounter with wild eyes, and she is frantically calling me over to her reception desk. _Great._

When I go over to her, she gets in close, hissing at me, “Are you wearing yesterday’s clothes?”

I look down. Yep, I’m wearing the same t-shirt as I was yesterday. I look up at her frantic eyes. “Nobody will notice, right?”

“We work at a fashion magazine. Everyone will notice.” She leans back in her chair, sighing. And she’s right. I can feel people judging me as they walk past. “What happened between you two?”

My eyes widen, realising exactly what this looks like. Like, I’m wearing the same clothes as yesterday, and I’m walking into work with Mr Pitch. It looks like we had sex. “Fuck,” I say, pressing my hand against my face in exasperation. Agatha raises an eyebrow at me. “I got a call to pick him up, and he was drunk, so I took him home. That’s all.”

“Well, okay. But that’s not what this looks like.”

I sigh at her, stalking off to the canteen to get his breakfast. When I go to Mr Pitch’s office, he looks a stressed mess, but I could swear that his eyes brighten up when he sees me. Or maybe it’s just the food. (It’s probably just the food, let’s be real.)

I hand him the bag, realising that I don’t have my briefcase on me, so I can’t go through his schedule like usual. “I’ll just go and get the –”

“Stay here a second,” he interrupts, and I raise my eyebrows, sitting down. He opens his food bag, and hands me half a sour cherry scone. It’s possibly the kindest gesture anyone has shown me in my entire life. As I shove the scone in my mouth, he smiles at me. “Thank you.”

I swallow. “What for?”

“For being on my side. It’s a pretty… cut-throat business, here. There are plenty of people that want to take my job, or pry into my family situation, but… it’s good to know that I’ve got you with me.”

My heart warms, and I feel a surge of pride. “Of course, I’m on your side. That’s what I’m here for.”

“I’m on your side, too. You know that, right?”

My eyes snap up. “You are?”

He looks embarrassed. “Yeah. I mean, we’re basically a team.”

I smile at him genuinely, getting up from my seat. “Mr Pitch… thank you.” I begin to walk away, a skip in my step, but he says my name, making me stop in my tracks.

“Simon?”

“Yeah?”

“Call me Baz.”

I can’t even control my grin spreading across my face as I take in his words. We’re at that level, now. He trusts me. _He likes me._ “Okay. Well, then… thank you, Baz!”

He offers me a slight smile as I walk away, and I feel an embarrassing amount of pride. He’s Baz, now. My mind plays his name on loop, like a love song stuck in my head. 

_Baz, Baz, Baz, Baz, Baz._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it's been over a week since my last chapter! School has been really busy, and it's going to continue to be busy for the next couple of weeks, but I really want to keep writing when I have the chance. I'm hoping to upload at least once a week.
> 
> I hope this chapter was worth the wait! I'm still not sure if my writing is any good, so as always, feedback would be appreciated :) I'm excited to see Simon and Baz's relationship develop over the next few chapters <3
> 
> tumblr: https://rainbowbaz.tumblr.com/


	4. The Spilt Coffee

It’s one of those days at work where everything is going my way. Baz and I ( _Yep_ , he’s officially Baz now) have been extraordinary friendly, beyond anything I would ever expect. He rips off half of his sour cherry scone every single morning, now, to give to _me_ , as if it’s casual routine. And, perhaps more importantly, I think I’m finally getting to grips with the whole _fashion_ side of my job. Getting Agatha to steal last season’s clothing from the magazine wardrobe is really working for me. I’m wearing a casual blazer today, and, if I do say so myself, I think I look pretty good. I look like a man who means business.

Nothing can go wrong today, I tell myself, as I triumphantly walk down the corridor. Absolutely nothing.

 _Thump._ A shoulder knocks into me, making my legs crumple, and Baz’s hot coffee fly out of my hand. A flurry of paperwork rains down over me, gently fluttering down to the floor below. I immediately crouch down to clean up the mess, and my heart sinks when I see where the paperwork has landed – directly onto the puddle of coffee. _Shit._ It’s soaked through.

“You need to watch where you’re going,” a low, sinister voice says above me. It’s horribly familiar. I look up, praying that it’s not the worst person that it possibly could be.

It’s him. _Mr Grimm._ He’s been lurking around the offices recently, like a bad smell, and I don’t know why. I gulp, quickly scrambling his soggy paperwork together and standing to attention. Our proximity is uncomfortable – and not in a good uncomfortable, like how I feel when I’m with Baz. In a bad uncomfortable, like, the kind that makes me want the world to swallow me up whole.

“Oh, wow, sorry Mr Grimm,” I stumble, desperately trying to reorder the pages. My hands won’t stop shaking, and I don’t know what I’m doing, and I wish that my ‘perfect’ day didn’t have to end so badly.

Mr Grimm is sneering at me, and panic sets in when he grabs the pages away from my hands. It’s almost aggressive… _venomous,_ even. “Forget it,” he says, disgust dripping out of his voice, and turns away from me, striding in the direction of Baz’s office. All I can do is stand in the corridor, in stunned shock. Am I going to be fired?

I guess today isn’t going as well as I thought.

\-----

It’s a dangerously similar situation to a few days ago – I’m sat at my desk, pretending to be busy, when I’m actually just spying on Baz and Mr Grimm. My newfound fierce protectiveness is thudding through my veins, and I can’t stop looking at Baz’s face when he’s infuriated – eyebrows furrowed, revealing a wrinkle at the top of his nose. I’m glad that I’m not at the firing line of his anger anymore.

Baz looks exasperated as Mr Grimm slams the door open (Can you do that? Slam a door _open?_ Because I think Mr Grimm just managed to do that). The handle crashes against the wall, and my body startles, in a mixture of fear and shock. I’ve never seen Mr Grimm’s face look so red.

I look down, playing with some loose paperclips on my desk, actively avoiding any possible eye contact. Their argument is on full display, now, booming down the corridors, making anyone in close proximity stop and stare.

“You’re a disgrace on your own, Basilton. I didn’t think that you could get any fucking worse, but here you are.”

I’m growing agitated, determined not to look up. Because if I do, I might not be able to control saying something. Defending him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Baz shouts, and I hear a chuckle from Mr Grimm. It makes me feel sick.

“It means that you were hopeless enough already without your useless fucking assistant making a show of this company.” My head snaps up, heart plummeting down to my feet. Mr Grimm is talking about me. I’m right here, and he’s calling me useless. I’m right behind him. Does he really regard me as _that_ worthless, because of one little mistake?

My mouth is opening and closing, and the entire office feels silent and stifling. All I can hear is my heartbeat, and all I can see is Baz, stepping towards his father slowly, like a lion about to pounce.

“You listen to me,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “You can call me whatever you fucking want. I am your son, after all, and being an asshole is clearly in the genetics.” He gulps, studying his father’s face, taking his time. “But do not bring Simon in to this. Understand?” My skin is prickling, and furious tears are welling up in my eyes. I thought that I was finally getting somewhere, but Mr Grimm has just kicked me down again.

As Mr Grimm walks away, dusting off his jacket, I stare at Baz. He’s looking back at me, and I half expect him to ask if I’m okay. But he just drags a hand over his face, turning back to his office, kicking over a potted plant and slamming his door back shut.

I need to see Penny.

\-----

“I’m sorry, Simon.” Penny coos, rubbing supportive circles over my back as I sob in her office. “Mr Grimm really is a dick.”

I raise my head from my hands, tears pitifully streaming down my face. “It – it wasn’t even my – my _fault,_ Penny. He just –”

“I know, I know,” she interrupts, throwing me a pitying look and grabbing her tissue box. I take one, scrunching it up and blowing my nose, wiping away my tears. My breathing is returning back to normal, but I still feel terrible. The CEO of one of the most powerful companies in the media thinks I’m useless, because of a tiny mistake that wasn’t even my fault. (At least, I hope it wasn’t my fault.)

I turn to Penny, eyes wide in panic rather than sadness, as my thoughts creep up on me. “Oh my God, Pen. What if I actually get fired? Like, actually?”

She rolls her eyes, running out of sympathy. “Simon, you’re not going to get fired. You just got dragged in to a family argument. It’s _fine._ ”

Her thoughts are far too rational for my brain. I’m already on overdrive, unable to control the fears rushing through my mind. “But, _Penny._ I can barely pay my rent as it is, and it’s not as if I have parents to run to when I need money. I can’t go back to writing freelance.”

“If you’re that worried, then maybe you should just work twice as hard as you already do. That’ll solve it.”

She’s being sarcastic, raising her eyebrows at me, but the idea lodges itself into my head. I wipe any stray tears from my eyes, jumping up and grinning at Penny. I have never loved her more than I do now. She’s a fucking _genius._ “Penny!” I shake her shoulders, ecstatic. She looks thoroughly unamused. “I could kiss you!”

“Simon, I was joking.”

I silence her. “It’s time for me to prove myself. If I don’t want to be useless, I need to show them all how amazing I am. Even Baz.”

Penny raises an eyebrow. “You’re calling him Baz now?”

“Yes! And if I can call him Baz without feeling weird about it, then I can do _anything._ Mr Grimm isn’t even going to know what usefulness is coming for him.”

She sighs, turning around on her swivel chair, back to her computer. I realise that I have to prove myself to her, too, in a way. “Whatever, Simon. Have fun with your mission. Some of us have _real_ work to do.”

I jump, hugging her from behind, face lost in her curls, and jog back to Baz’s office. This day was supposed to be perfect, and I’m going to get it back on track.

\-----

I burst into Baz’s office, and he looks up from his paperwork, looking both concerned and tired – unfamiliar expressions. “Simon,” he says, and for some reason it makes my stomach feel like it’s squeezing.

“Baz.” I stand in front of his desk, waiting for him to speak. It’s clear that he wants to say something.

“Listen, I’m so sorry about earlier. We both know that my father is terrible. And you don’t make a show of the company, he’s such a bastard –”

“Baz.” I interrupt, smiling at him. He looks puzzled. “It’s okay. I’m going to use this as an opportunity to prove myself.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “What?”

“I don’t want to only answer emails and arrange meetings! I can do something more. I _know_ I can. So, I think you should give me something to do.”

“Wow.” He leans back in his office chair, with an unfamiliar sparkle in his eye. I like it. I shift from foot to foot, feeling impatient to be given a task. Baz clicks his pen lid, lost in thought. “I mean, you could –” He stops mid-sentence, contemplating. “No, actually, I shouldn’t give you that.”

“What is it?” I smile, getting a bit overexcited as I sit down on the chair opposite him.

He sighs. “Do you want a real challenge?”

“Yes!”

“Okay. Well, then, we’re having a bit of a crisis at the moment, in regards to next month’s issue.”

“I can fix it!” I exclaim, already feeling motivated.

Baz stretches out his hand in a ‘stop’ position over my face, effectively silencing me. “Wait.” I sit back, listening to him. “We booked a notoriously trendy photographer to do our abstract wedding-style cover shoot. But the problem is, the shoot is in two days, and she’s pulled out of the deal, because apparently the magazine is too…” He brings two fingers up from each hand to use as quotations. “Too ‘materialistic’ and ‘shallow’ for her work.”

I think about the problem, in a wild attempt to be logical. “So… you want me to hire another photographer?”

“No. We need this one, so our wedding issue is unique. And _that’s_ the problem. We need someone to use their wit and charm to get her to work for us again.”

I smirk at him. “I’m the most witty and charming person I know, so I think I’m up to it.”

“Don’t get cocky, Salisbury.” He lifts up his laptop lid, presumably finding me the details. I watch over with a mixture of fear and excitement. This could be my one chance, and I’m ready to take it.

“What did you say her name was, again?”

“I didn’t.” He turns the laptop screen towards me, showing me a photograph. It’s magical, and picturesque, and exactly like a fairy-tale. I look at the photograph in awe.

“That’s beautiful.” I mutter, staring at the details, before glancing back over at Baz. “We need her on board.”

“That’s the spirit.” He smiles at me, and I feel pride bubbling up in my chest. “Her name is Trixie. She’s a local photographer, working mostly around London.”

“Trixie?” I ask, the name sounding oddly familiar. “Trixie Smith?”

“That’s the one. You’re more cultured than you look.”

By this stage, I’m feeling fully triumphant. “We used to be friends! I went to school with her!” Slowly but surely, my perfect day is getting back into shape. I can feel it by the way Baz is looking at me.

“Wow. That’s so convenient. If you can pull this off, the world will be on your side. My dad will love you.”

“Really?” I ask. I’m hopeful. Not that I actually need Mr Grimm’s _personal_ approval… but for the sake of my job, I at least need him to think that I’m not useless.

“Definitely. Are you sure Trixie will remember you, though?”

Baz asks it harmlessly, but I take dramatic offence. “Are you _joking?_ Of course, she will. At school I was the coolest kid _ever._ ” 

He’s trying not to laugh, and it makes me feel warm. “Okay, sure. Give her a call, and let me know.”

I spring up from my chair, already skipping to the door. “Will do!” I shout. I don’t look back, but I know that Baz will be smiling.

If I’ve managed to charm Baz and his looming superiority, then I think I can charm Trixie to reconsider.

\-----

I hang up the phone, feeling positively giddy as I run into Baz’s office. He stands up, looking ready to burst with excitement. 

“She said she’ll reconsider,” I blurt, and my stomach twists with butterflies as Baz laughs, fist-pumping the air.

“Thank God, Simon, you fucking legend!” He laughs, settling back down into his chair. “What does she want us to do?”

“She said that she will go to lunch with you tomorrow to discuss the photoshoot.” I sit back opposite Baz, my excitement dying down slightly as I remember her condition. “But…”

Baz’s face falls. “What?”

“No, it’s not too much of a big deal.” I begin to bite my nails, thinking about how to say Trixie’s strange request in a way that Baz won’t hate. “It’s just… I know it’s weird, but… Trixie was really excited over the idea of meeting up with me, and she said that she’ll only do the meeting if I’m there. And I know that’s not professional, and it’s a big meeting, so you can say no, I’m sure she’ll understand –”

Through my rambling, I barely notice Baz giggling at me. Yet again, he’s fucking _giggling,_ like he was when he was drunk. I pause, lips pursed as I look at him in confusion. What could I have said now?

“Simon,” he laughs, shaking his head and holding his forehead in his hand. I furrow my eyebrows at him as he puts his head back up. “It’s fine. Really. You can come to the meeting.”

 _Oh._ He’s handling this way better than I expected. Because if you think about it, it’s kind of weird for an assistant to go to a fancy lunch meeting with his boss. It’s not something I ever considered possible. I don’t trust his positive reaction, and how completely _lovely_ he’s been acting ever since that drunken night. Surely the mean Baz is in there somewhere, aching to come out? 

“Are you sure? It’s not exactly normal for me to be there.” I shift in my seat, uncomfortable by how carefree Baz is reacting to this.

“Of course, I’m sure. And…” Baz trails off his sentence, looking shy. These are two unusual things to happen. He almost always delivers sentences perfectly, and always holds an arrogant confidence. “And I think you should come. Because…” He gulps. “Because I want you there.”

My mind goes numb to anything but Baz. He wants me there? What does that even _mean?_ He wants me there because he wants to close the deal with Trixie, or because he... _wants me there?_

I nod calmly, as if my insides aren't screaming with confusion. “Okay. Okay, I’ll come.” I smile at him, moving towards the door so that I can confirm the lunch meeting.

“Simon?” Baz calls out. Every time he calls me that, it never gets old. I don’t know why I like it so much.

I turn back, a smile playing on my lips. He clears his throat, as if he is about to say something incredibly important.

“Wear something nice. We need you and your bumbling awkwardness to fit in with the expensive atmosphere. At least create the illusion of being normal.”

He smirks at me, and it’s funny. A few weeks ago, I would have wanted to cry after hearing an insult from ‘Mr Pitch’, but now I just feel contentment. Because he’s Baz, now. And it’s more teasing than insulting.

“I’ll wear something dashing, Baz. I’ll look so smart, trust me.”

I try not to smile as I walk away, but my emotions fail me as I hear him mutter “I’ll believe that when I see it,” as I shut the door. His playful insults never end. 

(I don’t want them to.)

\-----

As soon as Agatha heard from Penny that my lunch meeting is today, she began storming over to my desk, dragging me out of my chair.

“What the hell, Agatha?” I shout, as she tugs my hand, forcing me to follow her. “What are you doing?”

She gives my arm a firmer yank, making me wince, as she picks up the pace, forcing me to speed-walk. “Keep up, Simon! I’m getting you something to wear!”

“I don’t need anything special to wear! I’ll just wear something like I am today!” I protest, anxious to get back to my emails. In response, Agatha stops in her tracks, letting go of my arm. I hold it, soothing where her fingernails were digging into me, and watch her turn around and evaluate my outfit.

“Are you kidding me? You think that _chinos_ are suitable for a fancy meeting?” Her eyes trace a trail of judgement against my skin, and I shrug off her disgust.

“I don’t know! I’m wearing a blazer, so I look fancy enough!”

She rolls her eyes, grabbing my arm again and ignoring my grunts of protest. “You look _smart casual_ , Simon. You need to be pristine for this meeting. In case you forgot, you are representing a fashion magazine.” We have reached the company closet, and Agatha lets go of my arm for a final time, keeping a beady eye on me to ensure I don’t escape.

I sigh, giving up, but I don’t want her to see that I’ve stopped my fight. “Aren’t you supposed to be representing this fashion magazine too? Like, shouldn’t you be at the front desk right now?”

She raises a perfectly arched eyebrow at me, making me immediately shut up. “Believe me,” she starts, looking at my chinos in feign disbelief. “This is a more important duty.”

I laugh at how dramatic she is being, whilst following her in to the closet. It hits me that I’ve never actually had the chance to look around here before, despite Agatha stealing clothing for me. Which is weird, seeing as I _do_ work at a fashion magazine, as Agatha keeps pointing out. It’s unfamiliar territory, which makes the grandeur of it even more surprising. Shoes line every wall, high heels of every colour, and dresses and tops and trousers hang seemingly everywhere – from high up in the ceiling, to on racks on the floor. It’s completely baffling.

But Agatha is leading me away from all of it, instead taking me to a rail in the bottom corner of the room, where a selection of suits and shoes lie. A blink at it.

“Is this all the men’s stuff?”

“Yes,” Agatha responds, not understanding my confusion.

I cough. “So, you’re seriously telling me, that women’s clothing fills this entire room, there must be, what – hundreds of dresses alone? Maybe even _thousands?_ And then all I get is a little clothing rack at the dark corner of the room?”

Agatha rolls her eyes, looking at me in utter disbelief. “Simon, for every £1 you make, I get 80p. Women don’t get a lot. Can you not let us have a room of beautiful clothing to ourselves without crying about it?”

I back away from her, surprised at her outburst. “Okay, okay! You’re right!”

“And if you’re that salty about it, you could just wear a dress. It’s not a big deal.”

I wrinkle my nose, shaking my head at her. “As open-minded as I am, I don’t think dresses are quite my personal style.” I place my hand on the rail that the suits are hanging from, smiling at her. “I think I’ll stick with the suits.”

“Fair enough,” she says, selecting a few and pushing me towards the changing room. What follows is what I can only describe as a cheesy scene from a movie – where there’s a dramatic montage of someone trying on different prom dresses, and their family is sat outside, giving thumbs down to the awful outfits, as the person rolls their eyes and closes the curtain with a swish, trying on yet _another_ outfit. And then, there’s this moment, where they are wearing the perfect outfit – and the music changes to something slow and dreamy, and the daylight shines over them, illuminating their flawlessness, as the family clap and wipe away tears of joy.

I have never felt so connected to these movie characters than I do now. Because as I walk out in a perfectly fitted grey suit, complete with a black tie, Agatha looks like she might burst with pride.

“Simon,” she says, getting choked up. “You look beautiful.”

“Isn’t it a bit much?” I ask, sniffing before pulling down the sleeves of the blazer awkwardly. “I don’t want to look too fancy.”

“Stop it. You’re lovely. And you can’t be too overdressed for a fancy restaurant.” She grabs a lint roller, removing any dust from my jacket, which seems a bit over-the-top, even for Agatha’s standards. She catches my raised eyebrow and laughs, shaking her head. “I must admit, I’m living vicariously through you right now. I want to go to a fancy business meeting! I’ve never known Baz to like someone so much as you.”

I smile to myself, letting her finish fussing with my outfit, and she begins combing her fingers through my hair.

“Hey! Hands off the curls!” I protest, grabbing her wrist and bracing it away from my head. She shakes me off, continuing to tidy up my hair.

“You need to look smart! Let me –”

I give up, letting her style my hair with her hands, scrunching up my face as she does so. Then she steps back, finger resting above her chin as she studies me, seeing if I’m suitable to leave.

“Yes,” She says, giving me her seal of approval. “You’re ready.”

 _Thank God,_ I think, but I just smile at her, checking my watch. “What time is it… oh shit, yeah, you finished just in time. I need to go.”

“Good luck!” She squeals, as if she’s my mother wishing me luck before a piano recital. “And try not to be clumsy, for once. You’re wearing a couple of thousands worth of clothing.”

I try not to choke as I walk away. If I spill anything down myself, Agatha is definitely paying for the damage. I’m not even sure whether I’m allowed to raid the closet. 

I make a vow not to fuck this up as I get in the lift to the ground floor, where Baz should be waiting for me.

\-----

It feels weirdly like a first date as I approach the back of Baz on the ground floor. (Except for the fact that he doesn’t fancy me.) (And I don’t fancy him. Obviously. It’s just a slight attraction.) He’s never seen me so dressed up before; I’ve never even seen _myself_ so dressed up before. It’s new, and exciting, and so nerves bubble up in the pit of my stomach as I tap Baz on the shoulder.

“Hey!” I smile, as Baz turns around. I gesture to my outfit, and he looks at me, looking weirdly dazed, as his eyes graze over my suit. His speechlessness is making me nervous, and also a little bit giddy, so I decide to break his daze. “Do I scrub up well, or what?”

He startles at my voice, breaking out of his trance and holding eye contact with me, an eyebrow slightly raised. “You look…” He sighs, covering his mouth with his hand and letting out a chuckle, looking up at me in a way that makes my heart squeeze. “Grey is definitely your colour, Simon.”

I buck my chin up, looking at him square on, rising to his challenge. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His voice is soft, and delicate, and I want him to always speak like this.

I feel coy, and a bit bashful, as we start walking outside to the car. “Maybe you shouldn’t compliment me,” I say.

“Why’s that?” Baz asks, opening the car door for me. I get in, smirking to myself.

“Because if your dad overhears, he’ll fire me.”

Baz rolls his eyes, laughing, and slams the door. My body feels warm all over. I don’t know what I’m doing – it might be _flirting_ – but I like it. And I’m not nervous for the lunch meeting anymore, because Baz is with me, and he’ll make it okay.

\-----

We’re in the lift, going up to the “obnoxious” top floor. My stomach is aching because of the amount I ate (So. Much. Roast. Beef.), and I lean against the wall, staring at Baz.

“Are you sure we should see Mr Grimm about this?” I ask, clutching my stomach and groaning.

Baz doesn’t share my discomfort, looking weirdly bouncy and excited. “Are you joking? Simon, you fucking _owned_ that meeting. You literally saved our cover shoot. You said you wanted to prove yourself, so now’s your chance.” The elevator pings, and Baz turns to me, game face on. “Come on,” he says, and I listen, following him in to Mr Grimm’s office.

He strides straight past the receptionist, not even knocking on the door, walking straight through. I’m reluctant to follow him, but he beckons me over.

“Father. The cover shoot is back on.”

Mr Grimm turns towards Baz in pleasant interest, face slightly twitching with what I might label as – not happiness, but – maybe contentment? “How did you manage to pull that off, son?”

I stand back, ready for Baz to take the victory. Because as his assistant, that’s what I’m here for. Clean up the mess and let him take the credit.

“I didn’t pull it off. Simon did.” My heart lurches, as I step forward, giving Mr Grimm an awkward wave. I can’t quite look him in the eye. “Simon persuaded the photographer to reconsider, and she agreed to do the cover shoot. It’s all down to him.”

Mr Grimm looks over at me, sizing me up. “Hm,” he says, trying to evaluate the information he has just been given by a proud and defiant Baz. “Perhaps I underestimated you, Mr Salisbury.” My heart thumps with pride, as he turns to Baz, a hint of a smirk on his lips. “If I were you, I would give your assistant a raise.”

“I think I will,” Baz smiles, leading me out of the room. My composure breaks as soon as the door closes, and I mime swiping money out of my hands as we walk towards the lift.

“I’m gonna be rich, I’m gonna be rich!” I sing, as the elevator doors close on us. Baz just laughs, and I laugh, too, my arm grazing against his. We really do look professional, in our full suits, and I like the way it feels working together with him. It’s nice.

(It’s much better than fighting.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I should say - I'm so sorry that this chapter is a week later than planned. I had exams, and also things going on in my personal life, but now that is over, I'm going to dedicate more time towards writing.
> 
> Apologies aside, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! It's a bit more of Simon character building, but I snuck some Snowbaz growth in there too. I'm really enjoying writing about their relationship growing, so if you are also enjoying reading it, you will definitely like the next chapter :D
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me! A regular posting schedule is coming back from now on, I promise. New chapter coming in about a week :) As always, feedback is so appreciated <3
> 
> tumblr: https://rainbowbaz.tumblr.com/


	5. The Fashion Show

Baz narrows his eyes at me as I stumble into his office, five minutes behind schedule. I flop down onto the chair in front of his desk, mumbling a “Sorry” as I pass him his breakfast, rub my eyes and get my clipboard and pen ready. When I look up at him, he’s still looking at me in a state of disgust. I smile at him, awkwardly. “What?”

“Simon, you look fucking exhausted. How much sleep did you get last night?”

 _Oh._ He’s referring to the bags under my eyes. I must admit, they’re pretty bad. I even considered texting Agatha this morning and asking her to bring in some concealer for me to cover them up, but I figured it would be too pale. “Well… I probably got about four hours?” My voice gets higher at the end of my sentence, as I wince and brace for Baz to lecture me about how irresponsible I am.

 _“Four hours?_ What were you _doing?”_

I wish he hadn’t asked. “Netflix,” I mutter, staring down at my shoes.

“Netflix? What were you watching?”

“I was catching up on that vampire show I love –”

“A _vampire show?_ Simon, do you know how important this week is? Couldn’t your Netflix spree wait?” I can’t tell whether this is banter or genuine annoyance, but I decide to play along – at least if he’s actually stressed out, I might lighten his mood.

“Well, I have a lot to catch up on, seeing as I was so rudely interrupted in the middle of a series, when I had to pick you up when you were shitfaced.”

Baz widens his eyes. I think he likes it when I’m a bit sassy. It’s crossing a boundary; a boundary that is becoming a bit of a blurred line. (I don’t even think it exists anymore.) 

“As witty of a comeback as that was, we need to get down to business. It’s literally the most important week of our careers, and you can’t afford to be tired.” He reaches into his food bag and practically throws a sour cherry scone at me. I raise my eyebrows at him. (I think I’ve caught that habit from Baz, except I can’t do the cool raise-one-eyebrow thing.) “Eat it. You need the energy.”

“Why do I need so much energy?” I ask, mouth full of scone.

Baz scoffs. “Why do you need so much energy? _Simon._ It’s _London Fashion Week,_ for God’s sake. You need all the energy you can get.”

“Yeah, but won’t I just be writing emails and stuff?” Why is he making out that Fashion Week is such a big deal? I mean, I guess it _is,_ in the grand scheme of the fashion world, but I’m just an assistant. How stressful can it _be_ behind the scenes? 

Baz remains narrowing his eyes at me, thoroughly unimpressed. “It’s Men’s Fashion Week, Simon. Press and photographers from all over the world are going to be there, watching our magazine’s show. Everything has to be perfect.” He grips the skin above his nose in between his thumb and index finger, almost looking as if he is in pain.

I cross my right leg over my left, taking another bite of my scone. “Yeah, and my emails will be flawless. Chill out.”

His eyes snap open. “I thought you wanted responsibility, and extra chances to prove yourself around here. I’ve assigned you as managing our show backstage.”

 _What?_ “You _what?_ ” I shout, choking on my scone, trying to compose myself. I know that I’ve been nagging for more responsibility since I solved the photographer problem, but I don’t need _this_ much! “I’ve never even done fashion week before, Baz. How the shit am I supposed to manage _backstage?_ ”

Baz simply rolls his eyes. “You’re fine, Simon. Just make sure you have lots of energy, and you will have nothing to worry about.”

I unfold my legs, leaning forward in my seat towards him. “Are you kidding? There’s _everything_ to worry about! If I mess up… the whole show will be ruined. And I’ll get fired. And I can’t get fired, I can’t afford it.”

“Simon! You’ll be fine! I trusted you to do the job, and so you’re doing it.”

Despite my nerves, my heart thumps with pride. “You trust me?” My voice is unusually high-pitched, and Baz is laughing at me.

“Yes, you goose. Now go and check your emails. Your itinerary should have been sent to you.”

I scramble up from my chair, flustered, whilst he simply looks up at me, sipping at his coffee, looking as cool as ever. I make my way to get to my desk. If Baz trusts me, I can’t fuck it up. I have to ace this.

\-----

I have never felt more overwhelmed in my life. There is someone shouting instructions into my headset, whilst an (attractive) model is asking frankly unanswerable questions in front of me, and I’m furiously trying to write everything down on my clipboard. This level of multi-tasking is like nothing I have ever experienced before, and once both people have finished barking orders at me, I collapse on the nearest chair, watching the chaos unfold.

Right. So, I need to assist with quick changes, ensure that the models are in the right place at the right time, and do anything else that I’m asked – which doesn’t sound _too_ bad, except it’s literally fashion week and every task is a thousand times more difficult than it would usually be. The pressure of perfection is giving me a headache. 

I close my eyes for a moment, leaning my head against the brick wall, but jolt up when I feel a hand on my shoulder. Looking up, with a stray curl flopping into my eye, I see Baz raising an eyebrow at me.

“Baz!” I jump out of my chair, as if it has suddenly turned into lava. “I promise I wasn’t relaxing. I know I have a lot to do.”

“Hmmmm.” He narrows his eyes at me, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It makes my stomach feel fuzzy. “You’re already tired, and the show hasn’t even started.”

I shrug, looking at him properly now that my eyes are less bleary. He looks… _wow._ He definitely looks in-character for being the Editor-in-Chief of a fashion magazine. I’m almost tempted to ask “Who are you wearing?”, because he looks as if _he_ should be the one going on the catwalk, rather than some of these models. It’s hard to take it all in – the black suit, the perfectly slicked back hair, his constant smoulder thing he has going on. He looks like his usual self, but more slick, more refined. 

He’s lovely. And I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about my boss like this.

My daze is broken by Baz giving a soft chuckle. “Good luck,” he says. I smile, giving a response of “You too!” as he walks away, although I’m not completely sure what I’m wishing him luck for. Sitting in the front row and looking beautiful?

\-----

It’s halfway through the fashion show, and backstage is positively mental. There are half-naked male models everywhere, in the midst of quick changes, and all I can do is throw clothes over their heads and try not to panic, pushing them towards the doorway. It’s humid, and the air is thick with sweat, and if I didn’t already mention, _there are half-naked men everywhere._ (It’s difficult to concentrate.)

As I’m in the midst of running to the other side of the room to desperately try and find a hat which is probably worth more than my entire existence, I hear a high-pitched voice ringing above the noise. I turn around, and find Agatha running towards me. Oh, God. What is she doing here?

I turn around, rolling my eyes and continuing the mission to find the hat. But Agatha won’t have any of it. “Hey, Simon!” She squeals, interrupting my train of thought. I try to carry on with my job, and she sticks to my side, acting like a limpet. “Aren’t you going to show me around?”

“I’m busy, Agatha. I’ll see you at the afterparty… I just really need to find this hat.”

She smirks, continuing to stalk me as I rummage through the clothes rails and accessory racks. “Aren’t you going to show me around?”

“I don’t exactly have time.” I try and growl, to sound a bit threatening, but judging by the fact that she’s laughing at me, I don’t think it works.

She whines, gripping my arm and shaking me. I give up looking for the hat for a moment, looking at her in exasperation. “But look at all the hot guys!” Her eyes gloss over as she looks beyond me, probably staring at some abs, or whatever she finds attractive. “Speaking of which… one of them needs your help.”

I turn around, spotting exactly what she said – a hot guy. A blonde, _very shirtless_ hot guy, calling out for help with a quick change. And I’ll be dammed if anyone else helps him out first. (I hate how weak I am.) “Look for the hat,” I mutter to Agatha, abandoning the task and running towards him.

As I approach him, I notice a twinkle in his eye. It puts me at ease. “Hey, quick, get these trousers off me,” he says, whilst pulling on his new shirt, and I try not to laugh at how inappropriate this sounds. It gets worse as I notice that he’s wearing a buckle, and I have to lean down to unbuckle it. 

Laughter bubbles at my lips, and I can’t help but let it spill out. As I stand up again, to help him with his collar, he laughs back. He’s possibility the least stressed-out model I have ever encountered.

The joke is almost inevitable. “You could have asked me to dinner first,” I laugh, leading him to line up with the others. He laughs back, a genuine laugh, and I feel warm and proud. 

I have no idea what I’m doing. I don’t usually randomly flirt with strangers, but the atmosphere and the heat is clearly getting to my head.

“I’ll buy you a drink at the afterparty, is that good enough?”

 _Holy shit._ Is a model actually flirting with me? Did a model just offer to buy me a drink? What is my life right now?

I study his expression as he smirks at me. “Yeah, I think that’ll be sufficient.” I walk away, smiling to myself. I have never been so smooth in my entire life, except for the minor detail I didn’t even ask for his name.

Oh, well. At least being asked out by a model can be ticked off my bucket list.

\-----

The buzz of finishing a fashion show is like nothing I have ever felt before. Everything went according to plan, and the models are all dressed, and sweaty, and grinning, and I’m slightly dizzy from it all.

The mysterious hot model from earlier begins to approach me, and adrenaline pumps in my veins. “You ready to go?”, he asks, and I should probably be doing my job and clearing up, but I just follow him, like the thirsty idiot I am. I can’t even concentrate on anything else but the fact that _a model is buying me a drink_ , and I walk directly into a clothes rail, tripping over and almost hitting the ground. _Smooth, Simon._

A hand grabs my arm. “Careful,” Model Man says, and I smile at him, letting him prop me up again. We walk upstairs together, up to the bar filled with glamorous people and press and advertisers – but most importantly, _models._ I’m not used to seeing so many attractive people in one room, and I work in a magazine office full of perfect people every day, so that’s saying something.

We sit at the bar stools, finding out that they’re actually serving free drinks. “Well, at least my offer to buy you a drink was there,” Model Man jokes, and I laugh as he orders us cocktails.

“What was your name, again?” I ask, which is idiotic, because he never said it in the first place.

“Niall. And yours?”

“Simon.” 

And from there, it’s so easy. We start talking about fashion, and the industry, and then that turns into talking about embarrassing stories, and dating, and then he starts talking about his boyfriend, Dev. (Yes, he has a boyfriend.) Which is fine, because my attraction for him has basically evaporated anyway (although I feel sorry for his boyfriend, if he flirts with everyone like he did with me). Talking to him is comforting, like chatting to one of my old friends from school, but it’s fun. The enjoyment is possibly amplified by our abuse of the free bar, and I get more than a bit tipsy as we giggle about backstage earlier.

“And I was like, ‘Oh, take off my trousers, now!’, and that was your – your first impression of me!” Niall finds this the funniest thing in the world, as he is doubled over against the bar. His laughter is contagious, and a bit of martini sloshes out of my glass as I giggle madly.

My inhabitations have vanished, and I think it’s a good idea to do an exaggerated impression of Niall, screaming “Get these trousers OFF ME, RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW!” I find myself hilarious, shrieking with laughter, but Niall’s giggles have died down, and he is staring wide-eyed at something behind me.

It is at this precise moment that I turn around, and find Baz staring at me, in a state of shock at my outburst. 

I blink. For some reason, a layer of guilt settles itself into the base of my heart, and I have no idea why. I should merely be feeling embarrassed. It’s not like I was doing anything _wrong_ , and besides, it’s not like I owe anything to Baz. He’s my boss, and my friend, and nothing more. Right?

“Sorry, mate. He’s with me,” Baz growls, holding my arm and walking me along with him, away from the bar. I pull away from his grip, feeling a mixture of tipsy and annoyed, which is never a good combination. He turns around, raising an eyebrow. 

“What the fuck was that for?” I ask, looking back to see if I can find Niall. He’s already gone. I turn back to look at Baz, who looks like he is slowly losing his cool composure. “Well?”

“If you want to talk, we’ll have to go in the corridor. I can’t cause a scene.” He turns around, striding confidently towards the door, without even looking back. I shouldn’t be following him – I don’t even want to – but my feet betray me, and I trail after him like a lost puppy.

He shuts the door behind us, staring at me overly intensely. I repeat my question. “What – what was that for? I was just talking to him.”

Baz scoffs, looking at me as if I’m crazy. “You were literally screaming for him to take your trousers off, Simon. It was embarrassing and so inappropriate.”

Now, _that_ has irritated me. Fury is screaming in my veins, made worse by the alcohol, removing my usual filter that I work hard to maintain. “It wasn’t like that. It was a joke, Baz. It was a joke!” Why should I even have to justify myself to him? I can’t understand why it is such a big deal.

“Joke or not, you shouldn’t be with men like that.” Disgust is laced in his voice, and I have no idea what is wrong with him. “You definitely should not be flirting with models that we _hire._ It’s unprofessional.”

“Oh, yeah, right. I’m unprofessional?” I step forward, feeling confrontational and impossibly frustrated. I thought that we were friends, and I can’t believe he is talking to me like this. “You literally go to model fittings to – to – to pick up guys!”

He looks down at his feet, going quiet. “That’s different.”

“How is it different? _How?_ You just dragged me away from talking to a new friend, and you don’t even have a good excuse.” We’re close now, and I can feel his eyes burning a hole into my skin. He looks wild. “Tell me your excuse. What is it?”

Baz suddenly steps back, voice erupting into a shout, like a firework. “I have no excuse, okay!” The sudden volume makes me reel, in pure shock. His hands are tugging at his hair, and he looks utterly crazed. He never loses his composure with me. Except, now he’s dropping his hands to his sides, and staring at the floor, and I’m not even sure if it’s me that he’s angry with. I think he’s just angry with himself. “I have no excuse.” He mutters, and I have to strain to hear him. “I just didn’t want you talking to him. Models like him would just mess you around.”

I open my mouth to insist that Niall isn’t even single, but I decide to leave it. “If that’s the case, then why – why do you mess around with models? You’re hardly innocent.” I’m supposed to sound confrontational, but it comes out weak. I can’t keep it up, with Baz staring at me with his hopeless eyes. 

“It’s different. I can’t let you do it, because I care about you too much, okay? I care about you.” I raise my eyebrows, and my heart is telling me to hug him. But he walks away before I can say anything, tears glistening in his eyes. 

I slump my back against the wall, sinking to the floor. My intoxicated mind is making me even more confused. _What the ever-loving fuck just happened?_

My mind is bewildered enough that Baz dragged me away from Niall. I’m humiliated that he heard me shouting like that, but I’m more upset about his reaction. There’s no justifiable reason that he could get so angry about me flirting with someone else, unless… _unless…_

No. Of course he doesn’t. Baz is incredible, and powerful, and witty, and kind, and one of the greatest people I have ever met. So, he obviously wouldn’t ever be _jealous_ about me talking to someone else. He couldn’t be jealous. He could have anyone he wanted. And he has more important things to worry about, than who I’m talking to. 

But, then again… sometimes, when we’re talking, his eyes get all soft. And he lets me call him Baz. And he makes me feel more special and cherished and strong than anyone else has ever made me feel. 

And he cares about me.

And that means something. He could just mean it in a friendly way, but it’s the _way_ that he said it. Like it was his downfall.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Am I going to get fired? I don’t think so. Are things going to be awkward in the office on Monday? Definitely. But I’ll get my proper answers, one day. One day, when I’m not tipsy, and Baz isn’t angry. One day.

 _He cares about me._ So it’s going to be okay.

(And I care about him. More than I have ever cared about anyone.)

(More than I should.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Their first argument! D: Oh no! Let's hope that this awkwardness doesn't last for too long, and they finally sort things out! :(
> 
> On a more personal note, thank you so much for the amazing feedback. The response to this has been incredible, and it is the best motivation for writing. I'm hoping that a new chapter will be out this weekend, but it really just depends on how hectic school is. 2 weeks is 100% the longest I will ever make you wait, though - I promise!
> 
> As always, your comments are so appreciated <3
> 
> tumblr: https://rainbowbaz.tumblr.com/


	6. The Morning After

My heart thuds as I step into the lift, flooding me with anxiety. I felt slightly sick for the entire Tube journey, but now that I’m in the Grimm Publications building – now that I’m near _him_ – it’s making it so much worse.

What am I supposed to say? Am I supposed to act naturally? Or do I apologise? But what do I even have to apologise _for_ … talking to someone? Unanswerable questions flood my head, and as the lift pings open and I start to approach the canteen, a new sensation settles in the base of my chest. Dread. Because I’m collecting _his_ breakfast, which mean I have to see _him,_ and I know that it’s going to be awkward. There’s no way it couldn’t be.

I walk towards the office as slowly as possible, as if I’m walking on the moon. (Okay, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration. I don’t look _that weird._ ) I’m reluctant to go anywhere near his desk, because I have no idea what is going to happen. Part of me just wants to throw his food at him and run away, and hide behind my desk until he feels sorry for me, and apologises. 

Here we go… I’m turning the corner… _Brace yourself, Simon. There’s no escape now._

I open the door as if there’s a monster lurking at the other side, waiting to pounce…

 _Oh._ Baz isn’t at his desk. I sigh, letting my shoulders sink down in relief, and place his food bag and coffee at his desk, turning around to head out of the door. And that’s when I see him.

Baz is slouched at the armchair in the corner of the room, hair swept over his forehead, and eyes firmly closed. It reminds me of when I saw him sleeping, before, in his room, drenched in moonlight. But this time, he is dressed in a full suit – the exact same suit as last night. He didn’t go home.

Why didn’t he go home last night? Was he _that_ upset about our argument? I don’t understand it. My boss, the son of one of the richest men in England, _cares about me._ I’m only an assistant, and I barely have the money to pay rent. Why does he care about me so much?

I watch the gentle rise and fall of his chest. It’s sort of comforting, in a way. The rhythm of his breathing from across the room lulls my thoughts to a slow clarity. He looks so content when he’s sleeping. Even if he’s angry at me when he wakes, I know how soft he looks like this. And that will make it okay.

It hits me that it’s probably borderline weird that I’m currently watching my boss sleep. I shake my head, clearing away my thoughts, and walk out of his office and over to my desk, feeling my thudding heart slow in pace. What’s something normal I can do to pass the time until he wakes up?

Ah, yes. I could actually do my job! I load up my emails, desperately trying to find a distraction, and a glimmer of hope appears amidst the spam emails. Some instant messages from Penny.

> _hey Simon, could you drop over Baz’s accounts to me? sooooo money spent on the company card, plus department allocations, and anything else (it should be all in the same file). thanks!  
>  yoooooo Simon hurry up, I miss you and want to hear about your fashion week adventures  
>  SIMON DISTRACT ME FROM MY BORING JOB AND GOSSIP WITH MEEEEEE (BUT REMEMBER TO BRING THE ACCOUNTS)_

I grin, grabbing the exact file that Penny was talking about, leafing through the contents to check that it’s all there (It is. I’m a professional) and speed-walk away from my desk, not even bothering to look back to see whether Baz has woken up.

It’s silent relief, getting to escape from the looming fate of Baz waking up, and having to communicate with him. It’s strange – even though I know that our argument wasn’t _that_ intense, and he won’t be angry at me for long, I don’t think that his annoyance is what I’m scared of. It’s the caring behind it. I can’t work it out; I can’t work _him_ out – it feels like he’s an impossible puzzle, with mismatched pieces that I will never be able to connect.

\-----

I throw the file onto Penny’s desk, and immediately slouch down into the chair next to her desk. She turns to me, eyes lighting up.

“Simon!” She grins, grabbing my face and pinching my cheeks. “I’ve missed this face!”

I bat her hands off, acting mock-disgusted. “Get your hands off me!” She laughs in response, taking her hands to the keyboard and starting to work on the accounts. Her hair looks even madder than usual today, and a couple of curls have wedged themselves in between the arms of her glasses. It’s adorable.

“So, Simon, you _have to tell me_.” Despite her face being firmly turned towards the computer screen, her voice is telling me that she’s ready to gossip. Penny is the ultimate multitasker. “How was yesterday?”

I wince, unsure of how many details I want to get into. Do I tell her the whole story? What if someone overhears? I settle for an ambiguous reply. “It was fine. Good. Nothing really happened,” I shrug, leaning back in the chair and fiddling with my hands.

For a moment, I think I’ve gotten away with it. But almost aggressively, Penny turns her swivel chair in my direction, gawking at me. I sit up, hands clammy and brain telling me to run away. “Simon. I was stuck in the office for the whole of yesterday, while you lived it up at fashion week. There is absolutely _no way_ I am letting you get away with that response. I need _details_.”

My collar suddenly feels as if it is strangling my throat. “I don’t know what to tell you, Pen…” She raises an eyebrow at me. “Nothing really happened. I just managed a show. There was absolutely no drama or gossip or anything. It was quite boring, to be honest. Yeah. It was boring. I would have rather been doing the accounts, you know. I’m actually jealous of you.” 

I’m talking too much. My brain is on overdrive, spouting out any excuse it can think of, and I can’t prevent the verbal diarrhoea from pouring out.

Penny has clearly noticed my excessive, nervous talking, and the corners of her mouth are twitching up into a smirk. “There’s something you’re not telling me…” Her voice trails off, as she raises her eyebrows, smiling at my uncomfortableness. “Isn’t there?”

I shake my head so fast that it might snap off, but my denial seems to only confirm Penny’s suspicions. She leans back in her chair, crossing her arms and retaining that insufferable smirk. “Come on, Simon. I haven’t got _all day_.”

“Fine!” She has broken me down. “Fine, I’ll tell you. But only if you promise to give me some solid advice. Because I _really_ need it.”

Penny is visibly enjoying this. “Oooooh, okay,” she smiles, grabbing her mug and taking a sip of her green tea, eyes watching my every move in anticipation.

“Me and Baz had a…” I sigh, unsure of how to put it. “We had an argument.”

She puts her mug down on her desk, suddenly looking concerned rather than excited. “What happened?”

“At the afterparty, I was talking to this model guy, and we were…” I rest my head in my hand, realising how awful this story sounds. “I know it sounds bad, but we were joking about tearing each other’s clothes off.”

“Oh, my God. You were flirting with a model?”

“Well, kind of, but no. It was like… platonic flirting. He has a boyfriend.” Penny raises an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Anyway, that’s irrelevant to the story. So, we were getting quite drunk, and I got a bit loud in shouting about him ripping my trousers off…”

_“Simon!”_

“It was all in context! And it would have been completely fine, if Baz hadn’t been standing right behind me.”

Penny’s eyes widen, mouth forming a perfect ‘o’. “Oh, God, Simon. That must have been so awkward.”

“ _Yeah._ Even though I was pissed, it was still agonising.”

“So, what happened?”

I don’t want to be telling this story. It makes the problems too real. “He… uh…” I compose myself. “Baz dragged me away, and started having a go at me for flirting, and calling me inappropriate, so I started having a go at _him_ , saying I wasn’t doing anything wrong…”

“You. Had. A. Go. At. Mr. Pitch.” Penny’s voice is deadpan, and her mouth is hanging open. It makes me realise how extreme this story must seem to her. To anyone else, Baz and I are just boss and assistant, and this argument sounds like the kind of thing that could get me fired. But Baz and I… we used to be like that, but now we’re different. And it doesn’t feel like so much of a big deal to overstep that boundary.

“Yeah, I did. It’s not that much of a big deal. But… actually, it kind of is a big deal, because it got weird, and he pretty much implied that the only reason he was mad is because he _cares_ about me. And didn’t want to see me get hurt.”

Penny narrows her eyes at me. “So, what exactly is the problem?”

“Are you serious?” I shout, standing up and noticing the amount of people in the office who are staring at me. I look around, red-faced, and sit back down, lowering my voice and leaning towards an expectant Penny. “The problem is that my boss is currently sleeping in his office in last night’s clothes, and I don’t know how the fuck I’m supposed to approach him after last night. It’s weird.”

“Simon, you’re overexaggerating.” I raise my eyebrows at her. “It’s true! You are!”

“How?"

"Have you even stopped to think about how _nice_ it is that Baz was looking out for you? It’s not a common thing that a boss _actually cares_ about their assistant. From my perspective, it just sounds like he was looking after you, and stopping you from doing anything stupid. You don’t need to feel awkward. Just go over to him, and clear the air, and it will be _fine._ ”

How is it that Penny always manages to be so logical? It baffles me. I’m so glad that I have her to ground me in this crazy, dramatic, suffocating fashion world – it’s easy to get sucked into the drama. “Thank you,” I say, leaning forward and kissing her on the cheek. She scrunches up her face. “You’re the best!”

I begin to walk away, feeling ready to see Baz. It’s a new day, and a new start, and I’ll make this work. How awkward can seeing him _really_ be?

\-----

As I stride into Baz’s office, head held high in confidence, I notice that he’s relocated to his desk, and he is definitely awake. Which would be a good sign, if he wasn’t slouched over, head only propped up by his right fist.

“Good morning, Baz! Or should I say, good afternoon!” I attempt to joke, chuckling slightly, but it falls flat when Baz only stares at me blankly in response. _Oh._ Maybe Penny was wrong. This definitely isn’t easy.

I sway from foot to foot, uncertain of whether I should sit down, like usual. I decide not to. Last night is hanging like an elephant in the room, and it’s suffocating. I don’t want to make things more awkward.

“Um. Baz? Is there anything I can get you? An extra coffee? Some lunch?”

Baz lifts his head, leaning back into his chair and studying my expression. I twist my fingers around the belt loops on my jeans, and Baz watches my hands as I do it. He looks like he’s contemplating what to say, and I don’t blame him. Penny was wrong – the tension in the air is undeniable, no matter how much I want to squish it.

He opens his mouth, before closing it, and then opening it again. “There’s only one thing I need you to do.”

“Okay.” I answer too soon, embarrassingly revealing how eager to please I am. I just want the awkwardness to be over with.

“I met this up-and-coming designer last night, and want to see him again. His name is Matthew Harvey. Can you set up a date?”

I don’t think anything of it before writing it down on my clipboard. “Sure. Is there anything you want me to say to him? Like, the reason you want to meet him? Is it for an interview, or to buy some of his clothes, or a feature spread –”

“No, that won’t be necessary.” I look up at him, furrowing my brow in confusion. “It’s not for business. It’s just a date.”

 _Oh._ So, Baz is basically asking me to hook him up with _some guy._ An uncomfortable, distasteful feeling travels through my ribcage. I can’t even deny what it is – I’ve felt it too many times before. Jealousy.

I lower my clipboard, holding it by my side. I have no intention in writing what he just said down. “Sorry, Baz, I don’t think that’s appropriate. I’m not arranging a date for you.” (What am I doing? Am I _trying_ to get fired?) (No. No, it’s fine. We’re more than just boss and assistant. I don’t have to put up with this shit.)

“And why’s that?” He bucks his chin up, challenging me, and I take it.

“I’m not paid to sort out your love life, Baz.”

“You’re paid to be my assistant. That includes assisting me in my personal life. You _know_ this.”

I move closer to his desk, furious at his lack of understanding. “I don’t want to be involved in hooking you up with guys!” I’m breathing heavily, now, and I can feel my anger about to explode. I don’t want it to happen. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. “Can we just stick to business? _Please?_ ”

“Since when were we only involved in each other’s professional lives? Why is it _such a big deal_ for you to sort something out in my personal life?”

“Yeah, actually, I guess you’re right. It’s not a big deal for us to be involved in each other’s personal lives,” I bitterly shout. My stomach feels like it’s being weighed down with lead, telling me _no, Simon, don’t say anything stupid_ , but I can’t help myself. “You made that very clear when you involved yourself in my personal life last night.”

I can’t believe I just went there, and judging by Baz’s raised eyebrows and open mouth, he can’t believe it either. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m not even _mad_ about last night. I’m only mad at him. 

Baz stands up from his desk, tensing his jawline, and although I’m in a confrontation with him right now, I can’t help but think about how hot he looks right now. It’s inappropriate, I know – but can you blame me?

“Listen,” Baz hisses, and my stomach sinks. “In case you forgot, I am your boss, and you are my employee. No matter how close we are, our boundary stays in place. You have to carry out the tasks that I ask you to.”

We stand there, facing each other, narrowing our eyes at each other for what must be a full twenty seconds. I need to get out of here. I don’t have anything more to say. How am I supposed to reply to that?

I turn away in a huff, pacing towards the door before stopping in my tracks. I need to have the last word, no matter how petty it is. “Fine. I’ll arrange the date, but maybe you should get some sleep before you go. You look like shit.” I keep walking, slamming the door behind me, and heading straight for my desk.

I attempt to calm my anger, but it causes me physical pain to Google ‘Matthew Harvey’, and find a near-perfect, chiselled, muscly fashion designer. He looks like the kind of guy that drinks protein shakes, and enthuses about working out. It sickens me. 

I reluctantly call the number, with Baz studying me through the glass the entire time, and endure the most passive-aggressive phone call of my life. I arrange their date at a local restaurant that I know Baz hates, just because I can.

When I’m finished, I load up IM to message Penny. I’m so angry, I don’t even care if these messages are monitored.

> _Pennnnnyyyy that went horribly. He hates me even more than he did before. He made me arrange a DATE for him!!! a DATE!!!_

Her reply is almost instantaneous.

>   
>  _lol Simon it’s okay. he doesn’t hate you. And what’s so bad about arranging a date for him anyway??? CHILL_  
> 

Great. Even _Penny_ thinks that I’m ridiculous. I don’t even think that I’m being that unreasonable – but maybe if everyone already thinks badly of me, I should just be _even more_ petty. Fuck it. 

According to my schedule, Baz has a boardroom meeting in two hours for the final approval of the wedding issue. It’s being printed tomorrow morning, so it’s a big deal – all major departments have to be there. 

I should be reminding him about this meeting. But, then again, I don’t _have_ to. He can work it out himself, and be late for all I care.

Being petty feels good. As I look through the glass into Baz’s office, I expect to feel joy at my pathetic attempt for revenge – but all I can feel is my heart squeezing at the sight of him. Some feelings will never go away, even if I’m not sure what they are.

\-----

Baz made it to the meeting. (Annoyingly punctual bastard.) I stay at my desk, refreshing both my emails and the ‘Baz Pitch’ search on the news section of Google. My job is so boring when I don’t have anything to do – hardly any brands are emailing me because they’re all tied up with fashion week.

The sound of my mobile phone ringing springs me out of my trance of monotony. I scramble around in my briefcase, trying to find it amongst my papers, and find it at the very bottom. It’s Penny. I answer it as soon as I read her name.

“Simon? Hi. It’s Penny.”

“Yes, I realise that. I _do have_ Caller ID.”

“Shut up! There’s no time for joking around.” Panic is laced in her voice, and it makes my stomach knot. I have the foreboding feeling that something bad has happened.

“What’s wrong, Penny? Has something happened? Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes, Simon, I’m fine. But the magazine isn’t.”

I furrow my eyebrows. “What are you on about?”

“I was just at the shop picking up some chocolate, and I had a look at the magazines. There must have been a leak, or something, because MODE have almost the exact same front cover concept as us – the whole mystical wedding thing, just with a different model.” 

My stomach sinks to my toes. “Fuck. Well – well, surely, we have more covers to choose from, right? Like some old concepts that didn’t make the cut?”

“That’s not all. They’ve used our entire centre spread. Our _main feature,_ Simon, about fairy-tale wedding couture. There’s no way that Natasha will sell if it goes to print tomorrow like this – it’ll be a scandal, Simon, a huge one.”

“Oh, my God. Oh my… _God,_ Pen. This is huge. This is fucking _serious._ ”

Penny’s words are firm and final. “Find Baz. Now.”

She doesn’t have to tell me twice. I hang up, practically throwing my phone across the desk before running to the main boardroom. My heart feels like it’s about to go into overdrive. I didn’t think I would ever have to deal with a scandal of this scale.

I can’t even justify knocking – we need every second we can get – and so I burst into the room. Baz is stood at the front, directing everybody, yet now they all have their eyes on me.

“Baz,” I say, stumbling into the room. Everybody’s eyes widen. “I just got a call. There’s been a leak. MODE stole our feature. The idea… it’s gone.”

He stares at me, blinking, and I know that his heart is sinking just as much as mine is. His mouth is wide, brows slightly raised. For once, I have made Baz Pitch speechless.

Time seems to freeze. I expect the entire room to fall into outcry, but all I can hear are disjointed mutters and whispers from around the room. Yet they’re not talking about the leak… they’re talking about _me._

“Did he just call Mr Pitch by his _first name?_ ”

“Come _on,_ Amanda. This is proof. I reckon they’ve been fucking for _ages._ ”

“I guess Simon is kind of cute… definitely close to Mr Pitch’s type.”

“They _have_ to be in an intimate relationship. Nobody else could call him Baz and get away with it. He’s Mr Pitch to _everyone_.”

“Yep. They’re fucking.”

My mind spins, remembering Agatha’s warning on my very first day. _“We all call him Baz behind his back. But you do not want to call him that in person. You call him Mr Pitch. Nothing else.”_

Everyone calls him Mr Pitch. Even the bloody Creative Director. I’m the only one that calls him Baz to his face. _The only one._

The whispers around the room intensify. Rumours. Are we together? Aren’t we? Or are we just having sex?

It’s no wonder that they all think it. Baz and I… we’re too casual. And apparently, this news is even more shocking that the fact that _our magazine is in jeopardy._

My heart pounds even faster than I thought was humanly possible. Baz and I… me and Baz…

He’s still staring at me. They’re still whispering. Should I have called him Mr Pitch, in the room full of people?

_Shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaah! I've left you on a bit of a cliffhanger! What's going to happen to the magazine?! And more importantly, what's going to happen to Simon and Baz? D:
> 
> I'm so pleased that I'm settled into a regular schedule, now, and I hope you are all happy with that too :) Your support is my biggest motivator, so thank you so much!!! You guys are the best <3
> 
> tumblr: https://rainbowbaz.tumblr.com/


	7. The All-Nighter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter continues straight on from the end of the last chapter - so if you need to refresh your memory on what just happened, go back and do it! Thank you, and enjoy! <3

Baz breaks out of his trance, grabbing my arm and taking me outside of the room. He lets go of me, yet I can still feel the burn of his touch as he leans in, voice a panicked whisper.

“What the fuck do you _mean?_ There was a _leak?"_

I gulp. “Penny phoned me from the store. She said that MODE have stolen our front cover concept and the entire theme of our centre spread.” Baz drags his hand over his face, staring at me, eyes bulging. “That’s all I know.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve told me enough to ruin the whole fucking magazine.” He bashes his fist against the wall, causing everyone inside the meeting room to jump. I glance inside, and notice them all staring at us, straining to hear our conversation. I’m not even sure whether it’s for the sake of the magazine, or the sake of whatever ridiculous relationship gossip they are conjuring. “What the fuck are we going to do?”

“I don’t know… I mean, could we just leave out the centre spread?”

He stares at me as if I’m truly crazy. “Are you joking? The magazine would have about two pages…. Jesus Christ, it’s going to the printer tomorrow morning – I don’t have _time_ for this, Simon, _we_ don’t have time…”

Baz begins to pace up and down the corridor. Despite our remaining tension from last night, I know that this is my time to step up. “Baz.” He ignores me, busy raking his hands through his hair, so I raise my voice. “Baz!”

“What?” He stops in his tracks, staring at me as if he might start screaming.

“With all due respect… there’s no use in pacing. You’re wasting time.” He raises an eyebrow at me, and I know that I’m overstepping, but I don’t care. It’s for his own good. “The sooner you start fixing this mess, the greater a chance we have of salvaging this magazine.”

He begins to nod so quickly that he looks like a bobble head on the front of a car. “Yes. Yes, you’re right.” In a millisecond, he goes from panicked, to having a pure game face on, opening the meeting room door and shouting inside. “Right, everyone – take your lunch break now, because you sure as hell won’t be getting one later.” 

Baz licks his lips, running a hand through his hair. I stare at his mouth for perhaps a few seconds too long, and his brow furrows. “That message goes to you too, Simon.”

My stomach sinks, and I nod, turning to go towards the canteen. Our tension from last night isn’t going to be magically resolved until we talk it through, I suppose. There’s too much that’s been left unsaid.

\-----

As I walk into the canteen, heading for the sour cherry scones, the room goes silent. It feels like I’m some sort of scandalous teenager walking into the school canteen – everyone is looking in me in sheer shock. 

I attempt to brush it off, heading for the counter, and placing my order for tea, a steak sandwich, and a sour cherry scone. But even Cook Pritchard is acting suspiciously, raising her eyebrows and smirking as she plates up my lunch.

The room has turned to whispering as I thank Cook Pritchard, and make my way through the tables, towards a wide-eyed Penny and Agatha. 

I sit down, giving a nod to Penny. “Pen, you’re such a saviour for spotting the leak. I have no idea what would have happened if you didn’t call me.”

Digging in to my sandwich, I wait for a response. But all they are doing is staring at me, mouths gaping open.

“What?” I ask, mouth full of food.

Agatha splutters. “ _What?_ What do you mean, _‘what?’_ Have you been _alive_ for the past twenty minutes?”

“Well, yeah, I know people have been speculating about me and Baz for some reason. What’s the big deal?”

“You’re calling him Baz. Like, to his face.” Penny deadpans. 

“Yeah, I know. I know that’s kind of a big deal. But it’s just because we _trust_ each other.”

Penny leans forward, and Agatha follows, until they are both almost face to face with me. I narrow my eyes at them, and Agatha starts interrogating. “Are you _seriously_ telling me that you two aren’t in some sort of… intimate relationship? Did you tell me that he asked you to arrange a date for him… as some sort of _ploy?_ ”

I choke on a mouthful of sandwich, flinging my body back onto my seat. I can understand speculation from people that don’t know me, but… from my _own close friends?_ Thinking that I am _romantically involved with Baz?_ “What is wrong with you? No, oh my God, we’re not at all involved like that!”

“Are you sure?” Agatha asks, treating me as if I’m a filthy liar. “Because, you know – if you’re lying, I’ll never forgive you.” She’s teasing, but I still feel the need to prove that Baz and I aren’t a thing.

“Yes, I’m sure.” I say under my breath in indignation. Agatha leans back, satisfied, but Penny is still unconvinced.

“Simon, honey… You know it’s not exactly unheard of for Baz to have sex with his assistants, don’t you?” Penny seems to have become my adoptive mother, as it feels a lot like she’s giving me ‘The Talk’. I am vastly uncomfortable.

“Yes, I’ve heard that.”

“So… are you _sure_ that you’re telling the full truth? Like, you haven’t even had any _moments_ between you?”

“Moments?”

“Yeah, _moments._ ” Penny grabs Agatha’s shoulders, facing her dramatically. “Like, when you’re staring into each other’s eyes, and you could swear that you could see into their soul, and fireworks go off in your head…” Penny’s dramatic recount makes her and Agatha shriek with giggles, like schoolgirls, but I am unimpressed.

I don’t even know how to respond. Because telling them that Baz and I haven’t had any _moments_ … that seems like it would be lying. And I hate lying. 

My mind flicks back to the _moments_ we’ve shared. Nothing as dramatic as what Penny just said, but we’ve had a few. Like when I wore a grey suit, and he looked at me in that warm way – and that night where I took him home, and saw the shape of his body in the moonlight, and my hands ached to touch him.

Shit. I guess I like him more than I thought I did. Like… I _really_ like him. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that we’ve had _moments._ It might just be me being obsessive and weird.

“I wouldn’t say that we’ve had moments, no.” My heart falters slightly in my chest as I say that, but I try to keep a blank expression, and carry on eating my food.

Agatha takes this as her moment to butt in. “Okay, but can you _honestly_ say that you’re not attracted to him?”

That question has me stumped. I can’t lie about this. “Of course, I am.” Their eyes widen, and so I try to pass it off as not a big deal. “But, like, _who wouldn’t_ fancy him?”

“Okay. Have fun pretending that there’s nothing going on between you,” Penny smirks, studying my expression.

“Penny, he _literally_ got me to arrange a date for him. With some random guy.”

Agatha laughs. “You’re so clueless, Simon. He was trying to make you jealous.”

 _Jealous?_ “I’m not _jealous!"_

“Sure,” they say in unison, and I roll my eyes, grabbing my cup of tea and scone, and leaving the canteen. I don’t even care if everyone is staring at my storm-out. They can stare all they want.

I don’t want to have to confront this whole situation. But it’s impossible to avoid – my work life literally revolves around Baz. 

And the entire magazine is in literal _crisis_ – why does nobody even seem to care? Does gossip and drama really come above _everything_ in this office? It’s ridiculous. 

My stomach twists with nerves as I approach Baz’s office, but I know that it’s time for us to be professional, and sort this mess out. I open the door, talking as soon as I enter.

“Baz –”

He stands up from his chair, silencing me. “Today’s going to be intense. And I know that we need to sort out our argument – but for now, can we just pretend that nothing happened?”

I’m taken aback, and completely relieved. The leak is going to be difficult to resolve, and we need to be a team for this. “Okay. Great.”

He smiles, walking towards me and extending his hand. “Truce?”

I shake it firmly, grinning at him. “Truce.”

\-----

It’s 11PM. Baz and I are the only ones left in the boardroom – editors are busy typing up articles in their own offices, as well as searching through old articles that were cut, and then throwing them at us to arrange and approve.

We sit opposite each other at the large, circular table, sleepily reading through articles and putting them in order. I look up at him, every now and then, at the crinkle of his worn suit, and the way that his hair is swept across his forehead.

It’s too quiet. Most employees have left, and there’s not the usual buzz of chatter and chaos. Words are bubbling on my tongue, desperate to escape. I let them.

“Did this interrupt your date?” It’s supposed to come out snarky, but I sound too soft. Baz raises an eyebrow at me, yet his usual composure isn’t there.

“No, it’s okay. I didn’t care that much about seeing him anyway.” My heart tugs as I continue reading the article. Maybe Penny was right. Maybe he did only organise the date to get back at me.

Baz has dropped the conversation, but I pick it up again. “Really? I mean, when I Googled him, he looked cute.”

He looks up at me again, shrugging, and struggling to hide his smile. “Yeah, I guess. But there are cuter people around.”

My stomach feels like it’s rising to my chest. _Say you’re talking about me. I wish you would._

I can’t explain my feelings towards Baz. I definitely like him, that’s a certain. But I’m still so confused about what I want from him. It’s too much for my tired brain to think about, so I resume reading, and let out the hugest yawn of my life.

“God, I need a nap.” I say, mid-yawn, resting my cheek on my hand and gazing at Baz with wistful eyes.

Baz looks up, again – I need to stop distracting him – and he’s got a sparkle in his eye. “There’s no time for napping. Get back to work.”

I sigh, watching him stare back down at his papers. It’s strange – I’ve never felt more calm around him than when the magazine is literally in the middle of scandalous ruin.

I should definitely follow his orders and get back to work. But it won’t hurt if I look at him for a moment longer. Or maybe a few moments. (Or maybe forever.)

\-----

The entire building is silent as Baz flops back in his chair, sighing in relief. “Fuck. Wow. I think we’ve actually got the whole centre spread together.” He checks his watch, frowning. “And it’s only 1AM. We have a whole seven hours until print.”

I frown at him, rubbing my eyes. “I don’t mean to burst your bubble, but we don’t have a front cover.”

Baz frowns back, rubbing a hand over his forehead. He’s so tired that he can barely even be surprised about this. “Shit, of course. What are we going to do?” He throws his head down onto the desk, resting his forehead on his hands.

“I could always call Trixie. I’m sure she could do something last minute, since we are friends, and all.”

I only hear a muffled sigh in response. “We don’t have any models. Or clothes.” He doesn’t even bothering lifting his forehead from the table, so I assume my idea is a complete failure. But I don’t give up. I think I could actually save this.

Baz may say that we don’t have any models available, but I think he’s wrong. The contour of his face. His sharp eyebrows. His constant, blatantly _sexy_ smirk. There’s a reason for his bad boy reputation – it’s all in the look. He’s been on magazine covers all over the world – why not ours?

“We have you,” I blurt, and Baz lifts his head. “And a rack of designer men’s clothes in the wardrobe department.”

He rolls his eyes. Typical Baz, being modest. “Shut up. We haven’t got time to joke.”

“I’m being serious!” I jump up, excited by the idea. “The theme of the magazine could be Editor’s Picks. You basically selected the entire inside spread, so you could rewrite your Editor’s Note at the beginning, and having your face on the cover would make it even more special. _Come on."_

I can tell that Baz is taking me seriously, now, by the way that he is thoughtfully chewing his pen, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. “But won’t people find it… self-centred? Egotistical?”

“No. And here’s why.” I point to the framed picture in the room, of his mother’s magazine cover, from twenty years ago – before she died. It’s one of the magazine’s most iconic covers; simply Natasha Grimm-Pitch, the Editor, in all her beauty and grace, sat at a lavish chair, staring directly into the lens. It screams power, yet elegance, and I know that Baz adores it. It’s why it’s in a bloody frame.

His eyes soften as I point to the picture, and I take that as my cue to carry on talking. “It’s around your year anniversary of being Editor, isn’t it? So, it would be perfect. A tribute to your mother, and a chance for the world to see the real Baz.”

He has to say yes. That was possibly the most convincing pitch of my life, and if he says no to this, I will never have a good idea ever again.

I brace myself for his reaction, gritting my teeth in anticipation. He curls his lips into a smile, watching me with sparkling eyes. “Okay. You’ve convinced me.”

“Yes!” I squeal, doing a little dance on the spot. _What a relief._ I’m finally getting good at this, and the confidence boost feels good.

Baz laughs at my reaction, watching me from his chair. “Give Trixie a call, you muppet. There’s no time for dancing.” A couple of months ago, that would have made my heart sink, but now there’s a light chuckle in his voice, and I can’t get enough. I want to make him laugh all the time.

I pick up the phone, dialling her number, and we smile shyly at each other the entire time. Giddiness runs through me, and I can’t stop jigging my leg up and down.

Trixie is available, provided that we pay her a large sum of money for the late notice. But that’s fine. Everything is fine. Everything is finally working out.

\-----

Baz’s office has turned into a miniature studio. He simultaneously has his hair and make-up done by the company artists and stylists that we rudely awakened, whilst I help Trixie set up her lighting. It may be 3AM, but I don’t even need coffee to wake me up. I’m running on pure adrenaline.

Once we’re set up, and Baz is dressed in a simple, beautiful, black Ralph Lauren suit, all I can do is stand and watch. He may have not slept for almost 48 hours, but he still looks incredible. It almost adds to his moody look, and I can’t help myself from watching him. I’m too tired for impulse control.

Trixie stands him by the floor-to-ceiling windows that line the side wall of his office – looking out onto London, illuminated by buildings and neon lights. Everything goes quiet. All I can hear is the click of the lens, Trixie’s whispering of directions, and Baz shuffling into different positions. 

Nobody can talk. Everybody is in a trance. There’s an aura, a magic, about the room – as if we are witnessing something special. And we are. I’ve never seen anything like him.

His poses are so effortless. He doesn’t have to do anything special for the camera – just look into it. The purple lights of the city paint something onto his face that I rarely see – softness. Vulnerability. Because that’s what he is, at the end of the day. Soft, and loving, and kind. No matter how strong his façade may be, I know that he’s not really like that.

Grey eyes. Black hair. Sharp eyebrows. High cheekbones. A laugh that you would kill for, a heart that you would die for. He’s an enigma; you fear that if you get too close to him, you might drown. But in reality, it’s quite the opposite. 

When you get close to him, you realise that he’s not really _scary_ at all. He’s just a _boy._ And that’s it – that’s the secret of Baz Pitch. I’ve finally cracked it. And now that I know it, I can’t stop looking at him.

The photoshoot ends, and I realise it’s been half an hour. I’ve been watching him like a movie, completely still, completely focussed. Baz looks back at me, and our sleepy eye contact makes my heart ache.

He walks over as Trixie looks through the photos. “How was I?” He asks. And I know he’s asking it for his own sadistic enjoyment. Because if he couldn’t see that I was attracted to him before, he definitely knows now, after the way I was just looking at him. It’s too late for me to keep my guard up.

“You were great,” I say, voice croaking as I talk. I clear my throat, so that it sounds like I _have_ actually been through puberty at some stage of my life. “You were really great.”

“Thanks.” He says, smiling down at me, looking at his feet. My heart pulls. Everything is still too quiet. I can hear the thud of my own heart beating.

After a few minutes of Baz and I trying not to fall asleep standing up, Trixie moves over to us, looking sparky and awake, although it’s so late. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s nocturnal. “Hey, which photo do you prefer?”

She flicks through two photos. In the first, Baz is stood looking slightly to the side – a more dramatic profile shot, where he looks moody and beautiful. And in the second, he is staring directly into the lens – a more soft, simple look. I can’t keep my eyes off them.

Baz stands behind me, to an angle, so that he can have a better look at the pictures from the viewfinder. “I think the second.”

“I agree,” I say too quickly, but it comes out strangled. “You look…”

My voice is quiet, and I can’t finish the sentence. But Baz _has_ _to_ know what I mean. 

I feel his fingers ghosting over my wrist, and I assume that it’s an accident, but they’re lightly tracing down, over the joint of my thumb, and skating patterns over my palm. I can’t stop staring at his hand on mine, silently begging him not to stop. Because it feels _so good._ My nerve endings have been set aflame. _Everything_ has been set aflame.

It’s probably something about it being mere hours before the sun comes up, and us both being tired and delirious, but his fingers are moving in between mine, and I’m aching to hold his hand. It’s silly – I’ve done _far_ dirtier things than holding hands before, but suddenly it feels like the biggest deal in the world. I want him to hold me, in the simplest of ways.

“Yeah, I think the second.” Trixie declares, turning around. Baz and I move away from each other like lightening, and his light, floaty contact is all I can think about. I just want to feel like that again.

Baz coughs, clearing his throat. “Yeah… yeah, me too. Trixie, would you be able to send that over to Graphics?”

She nods, moving over to her computer, and I look back up at Baz. He smiles sheepishly at me, opening and closing his mouth a couple of times before saying anything.

“Um. Simon. Thank you for tonight. You really saved the front cover, and, yeah… thank you.” He is a stumbling mess, and I raise my eyebrows at him, enjoying being the cooler one for a change, despite my pounding heart. “You can go home now. Get some sleep. I’ll take it from here.”

“Thanks, Baz. See you in the morning.” I smile at him, and brush against his arm as I walk away. When I’m safely in the corridor, I turn around, checking to see how he looks. And he’s rooted to the very same spot, looking utterly confused.

I laugh to myself, shaking my head as I approach the lifts. I don’t feel as if last night’s argument needs an explanation anymore – it feels like old news. What I feel instead is something new: contentment, and excitement.

In the space of one night, I have managed to save this magazine from ruin, and shake _Baz fucking Pitch_ up by merely participating in caressing hands. Those are two things that I didn’t think I would be able to say this morning. 

It’s funny how one all-nighter can change things. 

(I think things are changing between us.) 

(For the better.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeeeeek! I've been so excited about writing this chapter for the longest time - it's one of the few things that stayed in my original plan - and I hope you all have loved reading is as much as I have adored writing it!
> 
> Just a slight pre-warning: I'm anticipating this fic to be roughly 10 chapters when completed! So there's only a few weeks to go :( But if anything, that should get you all excited because... things are finally happening :D
> 
> Your feedback is appreciated as always! Thank you for sticking with my crazy idea for so long - you guys are the best <3
> 
> tumblr: https://rainbowbaz.tumblr.com/


	8. The Coffee Shop

“Wow, Baz,” I grin, as I walk into the office. “You look like shit.”

Of course, I don’t mean it – Baz somehow still manages to look picturesque after last night’s events – but I can’t help teasing him. His hair is messy, unlike his usual _oh-so-perfect_ style, and his suit is ridiculously crumpled and creased. Yet my attention is focused on his rolled-up sleeves – I can see the firmness of his arms, trailing down to his hands… _his hands,_ the ones that touched mine last night… _the ones I can’t stop thinking about._

He grunts in response, making my smile widen as I plonk myself down in the chair opposite him. “Thanks a lot, Simon. That’s really what I wanted to hear,” he deadpans. 

“Did you manage to get any sleep?” I ask, not even trying to mask the caring tone behind my inquiry. There’s no point – he _has_ to know how I feel by now.

“Two and a half hours.” Baz rests his head on his hand, staring up at me in a way that accentuates the bags under his eyes. He really does look knackered. 

I grit my teeth at his response. “Was it all worth it? Was the magazine printed in time?”

Baz’s eyes light up at my question, abruptly sitting up at his chair and meeting my eyes with a smile. He looks like he has suddenly woken up. “Yes! All we need to do is show the new details to my father, and then it’ll be distributed.”

I narrow my eyes at his choice of pronoun. _“We?”_

“Yes, _we.”_ He looks smug, now, and I don’t trust it. _“You_ came up with the idea for the cover. You deserve some credit.”

“I don’t think Mr Grimm likes me.” My stomach turns, thinking about a recent interaction with him. “I split _coffee_ on his paperwork. He called me _useless.”_

Baz rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling. I like how much he smiles around me nowadays. It’s comfortable. “Yes, _numpty,_ but he also told me to give you a pay-rise after you got Trixie as our photographer.”

“For the cover that was leaked,” I snap back.

“But she came back and re-did it last night. It’s all down to you.”

I narrow my eyes at him, unable to self-deprecate any further. “Touché.”

He nods in satisfaction, walking coolly towards the entrance of his office and opening the door, leaning against it. “So, are you coming to see my father?”

I sigh in false indignation, manoeuvring myself off the chair and stomping towards him like a grumpy child. _“Fine._ I’ll go with you.”

Baz looks pleased with himself, as if he knew that I would go along with him anyway, and keeps on holding the door open for me. “Come on, then.”

As I walk past him, he brushes his hand over my hip, dragging his thumb over the material of my shirt. A thousand tingles rush through my body, and I just want to take his hand and hold it there, or lace it through mine, or _anything._

But he simply takes his hand away and walks beside me, acting like everything is normal. My skin is on fire, and my mouth is dry. Everything about him is too much.

He’s too much, but I want more.

But he’s my boss. And there are boundaries. Boundaries that have broken down so much that they are barely recognisable anymore. I feel like if I just reached over now, and brushed his hand against mine, he wouldn’t even bat an eyelid. 

Anyway, I need to stop thinking about this. I can see that Baz’s mouth is moving, as if he’s talking to me, but I can’t hear him over the thud of my heart and the thousands of words flooding my head. I just nod, as if I heard everything that he just said, and follow him into the lift.

I need to calm myself down. Composure is necessary to survive a trip to Mr Grimm’s office.

\-----

Mr Grimm stares at the front cover of the magazine, frowning as he licks his finger to turn a page. Baz and I anxiously watch his every move, waiting for a response.

Will he be happy that we made such a huge change without consulting him? Probably not. Natasha Magazine is the biggest magazine in his empire, _by far,_ and so it’s crucial for him to know about any major changes.

But, to be fair, Baz and I showed amazing initiative. Like, with the help of the editors, we responded to the leak and produced an incredible magazine in the space of twelve hours. Whatever Mr Grimm says, I’m proud of us. _Us._ We’re a team, now.

He looks up at us, with beady eyes, and I could swear that I hear Baz take a sharp intake of breath. I know that he always wants to act powerful and strong in front of his father, but at the end of the day, I think that he just wants to impress him. It makes sense – now that I know that Baz is soft and lovely, _of course_ he wants his father to be proud of him. It’s just a great shame that Mr Grimm is such an intolerable asshole.

“So,” Mr Grimm starts, and I don’t dare to take my eyes off him. “Simon.”

 _What?_ Why does he want to talk to _me?_

“Um, yes?” I attempt to sound strong, but the nerves leak out of my voice. 

“I presume that it was you that spotted the leak of our cover story to MODE Magazine?”

 _Thank God_ – a question I can answer. “No, Sir. It was Penny.”

He raises an eyebrow, reminding me of Baz in his sinister days. “Who?”

“Penny, Sir. From – from accounting.” I cringe as I stumble on my words, and Mr Grimm is looking at me with an expression that I can only describe as _distaste._

“Ah. Well, I don’t tend to know accountants by name. Or editors. Or assistants, usually.” He studies me, staring in disgust at my cheap leather shoes, before moving on to staring Baz in the face. “It should usually be an Editor-in-Chief’s role to ensure that there are not security breaches, Basilton. You should have a direct line of communication with all major fashion publications, to ensure that this kind of disaster doesn’t occur.”

I can feel Baz losing his temper next to me – he’s shifting his feet from side to side, and twisting his hands into fists. “Father,” he starts, in possibly the most passive aggressive tone I have ever heard, “With all due respect, we literally worked our _fucking asses off_ to fix this mess. Do you not have _one_ positive thing to say?”

Mr Grimm grimaces. “I shall admit, your cover and centre spread were elegant saves to a terrible mistake. Although, I’m not too fond of your timing of appearing on the cover. We just have to hope that nobody thinks you are shitting on the Grimm family.”

Baz chuckles, but not in an amused way – in a _severely_ pissed off way. “What the _fuck_ are you talking about?” I feel like I shouldn’t be in the middle of this family feud, but it’s kind of fascinating to me. The novelty of watching two of the most powerful men in London argue hasn’t grown old.

“You know _exactly_ what I’m talking about, Basilton. The cover was in the same style as your mother’s from years ago. If people pick up on that, it will make it seem as if you remain loyal to her, and are standing against my remarriage. In case you forgot, _I’m getting married in two weeks._ The timing of this is _despicable.”_

I can’t hide my shock. “Mr Grimm – you’re getting _married?”_

How don’t I know about this? Why hasn’t Baz mentioned it? Why am I always the last to find out about _everything?_

Baz looks at me, baffled. “Simon… I literally _just_ told you about the wedding.”

“When?”

“On our way here.” He appears truly flabbergasted, and my face falls as I remember why I never heard about the wedding.

Baz tried to tell me, but I was in a trance over him touching me. Such a trance, that I didn’t even hear any of the words coming out of his mouth.

 _Shit._

He shakes his head at me, turning back to Mr Grimm. “You know what, father? Maybe I _am_ releasing this cover to shit all over your wedding. I’ll never forgive you for the way you treated my mother when she was alive. The fact you are remarrying makes me _sick.”_

Baz turns around, striding out of the room. Mr Grimm looks like he is about to explode, so I awkwardly nod at him, slightly bowing, and jog out of the room to escape his wrath.

Baz slams the door behind us, almost as if he is still a teenager, and immediately heads for the lift, stepping in. I think he has forgotten that I’m here – I’m struggling to catch up with him, and I’m _so_ out of breath.

“Baz, wait,” I pant, running towards the closing doors. He holds the door open with his arm, and he looks _so hot when he’s mad_ – but that’s an inappropriate thought to be having right now. As the doors close behind us, I lean against the wall, catching my breath. “Well, that meeting didn’t exactly go as well as we hoped.”

Baz frowns, running his hand over his face and leaning against the other wall, mirroring me. “You’re telling _me._ Jesus, that was fucking _awful._ My father is such an obnoxious prick.”

“I would agree with you, but there are probably hidden microphones in this lift. He’s definitely listening to our every word.”

I’m trying to loosen him up, and it partially succeeds – he lets out a small chuckle, smiling at me lazily. “Sorry for being so dramatic. I’m just upset that he’s getting remarried. It makes my mother’s death feel too real, you know?”

My heart pangs at his vulnerability. When Baz is tired, he seems to just let all of his feelings out. The least I can do is sympathise with him. “Yeah, I get it. You’re not being dramatic.”

The lift pings, bringing us out to Natasha’s reception, and we walk out, yet Baz seems to have no intention to get back to the office, as he leans against the wall, groaning. “I’m just so fucking _tired_ of the same routine. I get proud of something, and then my father tells me that I’m a piece of shit. It happens over, and over, and over again. I’m trapped in an endless cycle of failure.”

“You do realise that everyone in this office is on your side, right?” Baz’s eyebrows lift at that, suddenly paying attention to me rather than wallowing in his own self-pity. “Most people think that Mr Grimm is an asshole. Plus, you’re being too hard on yourself. You’re like…” I wince, suddenly feeling shy about comforting him. “You’re the most passionate person I know. So, you’re not a failure.”

Baz’s eyebrow’s immediately shoot up, mouth turning into that _damned sexy smirk._ “Passionate, eh?”

“I meant in your _work._ Don’t get too cocky about it.”

He lifts his back from the wall, challenging me. “Oh, yeah? I’ll have you know that I’m _very_ passionate. In every sense of the word.”

 _How am I supposed to respond to that?_ I decide to be brave, adrenaline rushing through my heart as I respond, “Maybe you are. But how would I know?”

There’s a silence, and our flirtatious banter kind of hangs in the air above us – and then I find myself staring at his lips a bit too much, and _God,_ they really do look nice. And maybe in some alternate universe, where I am both brave and not standing in the reception of an office, I would kiss him right now. Just to see what would happen.

These are dangerous thoughts. Because if I am one thing, it is impulsive. My instinct has always been something I need to keep stowed away – or else _God knows_ what would happen. 

But maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if I acted on my impulses every once in a while. Lived dangerously. If Baz says that he is passionate, then I want to see it. I want to know that side of him.

I want too much of him. More than I _can_ have. So, for now, I buck up my chin in false confidence, and look him straight in the eye. “You need waking up. Let’s get coffee.”

“In the canteen?” Baz asks, but I’m already heading for the lift.

I hold the door open. “Nah. We need to get out of this magazine bubble. I think we deserve a break.”

Baz shrugs, stepping into the lift with me. He’s trying to play it cool, but as we’re descending, I swear I can see a smile underneath all of his sleepiness.

\-----

The coffee shop is like the perfect hipster environment – an exposed brick wall on one side, low, industrial lamps hanging from the ceiling, and weird, unintelligible artwork on the walls. Baz looks a bit too overdressed in his suit, but that’s fine – everybody knows who he is, so nobody will judge him.

We approach the counter, and Baz studies the menu board, stepping forward to talk to the barista. “Hi. Can I have a pumpkin mocha breve?”

I wrinkle my nose. _Pumpkin mocha breve?_ That sounds like the sickliest, sweetest thing in the world. Even I don’t have that much of a sweet tooth, and I _live_ for sour cherry scones.

“Um. I’ll just have a cup of tea, please. A bit of milk, no sugar.”

As the barista begins to prepare our drinks, I notice Baz looking at me, mouth hanging upon. “What?” I ask, confused.

 _“Tea._ You ordered _tea._ We’re at a coffee shop, with a thousand things on the menu, and you choose _tea.”_

I roll my eyes, trying desperately to stop myself from smiling. “I just love tea, okay?”

He scoffs. “God. You’re one of _those_ people.”

“Fuck off,” I say, and he raises an eyebrow. “At least I’m not drinking pure sugar, like you. At least I’ll keep my full set of teeth.”

Baz lets out a laugh, booming across the small café. I didn’t realise I was even _that_ funny, but he seems to be laughing around me a lot more over the past few days. It’s kind of endearing.

Despite appearing upbeat, once we collect our drinks and settle down in a booth by the window, he slouches, head falling against the plush back of the seat.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, although I’m fully aware of why he’s feeling awful. He’s obviously not going to instantly recover from that horrific meeting – I know that _I’ll_ probably have nightmares about it.

He closes his eyes, frowning. “I can’t get over the fact that my father is getting married in _two weeks._ I’ve been trying to pretend it isn’t happening for far too long.”

Baz sounds so exhausted, and it’s making my heart hurt. “Hey. I know it must hurt. But…” I notice his hand on the table, and my fingers crawl towards him, tempted to touch. But his eyes are closed, and I can’t bring myself to make that kind of move on him, so I bring my hand back, resting it on my leg. I don’t have the courage. 

Clearing my throat, I look back up at him. “Let’s just talk about something else. Your daddy issues can wait.”

He opens his eyes, grinning at me. “Alright, fine.” Reaching forward, he brings his coffee to his lips, taking a sip. My eyes are fixed on his mouth. (I can’t help it, okay? I _like_ him. A lot.) “Is there any office gossip I don’t know about?”

I laugh, looking at him with crinkled eyes. “We could talk about anything, _anything_ in the world, and yet you want to know about office gossip.”

 _“Yes!_ I’m too detached from it all. Nobody ever tells me the gossip.” His bottom lip juts out, like a pouting child, and so I roll my eyes, trying to think of something to stop him from sulking.

There’s only one piece of gossip on my mind. It’s the only thing that everyone has been talking about.

The meeting. When I called him ‘Baz.’ And everyone was convinced that we were in some sort of intimate relationship.

Is this appropriate gossip to tell my boss? I’m not sure. But, then again, he’s not really my _boss,_ is he? I mean, he technically is, but we’re more than that now.

My mind is ticking, as Baz is expectantly waiting for my response. Although the possibility of even _suggesting_ that Baz and I are more than friends makes my stomach twist, this is the perfect opportunity to gage whether Baz might feel the same way. 

I know that he must have _some sort_ of attraction towards me, because of the way that he was left speechless when we touched last night. But I don’t know what that means – he has a reputation of having sex with his assistants, and I don’t want him to see me as simply another assistant to seduce. I’d like to think that I mean more than that.

“Well,” I start, facing him, painting a cool exterior over my screaming insides. “You know the other day, when I burst into your meeting to tell you about the leak?”

He closes his eyes. “I’d rather not think about it.”

“Don’t worry, it’s not really about the leak. We’re not talking about that.”

Baz re-opens one eye, peering at me. “Hm. Carry on, then.”

“So, it’s just kind of funny, really. Because I, um, called you Baz, people started… people started _talking,_ and it’s not a big deal or anything, but…” _Pull yourself together, Simon._ “Everyone in the office kind of thinks that we are in an intimate relationship.”

He doesn’t say anything at first. He barely even looks surprised, and it’s making me feel awkward. I begin to laugh at my own story, obviously too loud to be genuine. 

“Oh,” he starts, and my stomach drops to the floor. “Well, I can see why people would think that. Because, you know, I’m obviously _so fucking terrifying,_ and everyone apart from you is too _afraid_ to call me Baz.”

I play with my sleeves, feeling too coy to look him in the eye. “I only call you Baz because you said I could.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says, and his voice is so soft that I give in and look at him. His eyes are wistful, and it’s taking all of my composure not to just _lean over_ and _do something._ “With you, it didn’t feel so much like you were just my assistant. Once I knew you were on my side, you became more than that.”

“More than that?” My heart is pounding, and I’d be surprised if he can’t hear it.

“Yeah, more than that.”

There’s a silence, as Baz takes a pensive sip of his sugary coffee, gazing out of the window for a moment. He looks back at me, and I quickly avert my eyes, to try and make it look like I wasn’t staring at him the entire time. (I’m definitely guilty of staring too much. But I can’t help it.)

“You know,” he says, and he’s speaking in a delicate tone, almost as if he is gently letting me down. I brace myself, mentally preparing for him to say that he isn’t attracted to me, and it’s all just a game. “If you have a crush on me, then that’s okay. I don’t mind. I won’t get mad.”

I begin to laugh, out of nervous habit, but Baz merely looks sheepish, forcing me to stop. He speaks again, to remove the awkward silence. “Well, do you? Have a crush on me?”

I wind the loose thread on my jacket sleeve around my finger. How am I supposed to respond to that? I’m not a good liar, but I also don't want to deal with the consequences of telling the truth. He’s watching me as if my answer is the most important thing in the world… probably because he doesn't want me to ruin our friendship.

“Shut up,” I mumble, desperately trying to dispel the conversation. It was a bad idea for me to bring this up in the first place, really. The regret is making my heart squeeze.

He takes the hint, moving on to another topic of conversation. “We need to talk about our argument the other night.”

It almost shocks me that he's bringing this up. Our argument, back at the fashion week after-party, seems like lifetimes ago. It feels so futile and irrelevant, now – although it was only two nights ago, we’ve been through so much since then, with the magazine leak and the all-nighter. We’re so much stronger, now.

“We don't have to talk about it,” I mumble, uncomfortable with the direction this conversation is headed. I don't want to start fighting again. 

Baz rests his cheek on his hand. “No, we don't _have_ to talk about it. But I want to.” He sighs, contemplating what to say next, and I don't bother butting in. “Look… it was completely my fault. My life has been pretty terrible lately, if I’m honest. My father is getting married in two weeks, and nobody has really cared to ask _me_ how I feel about it.”

“I wouldn't asked, if I’d known.”

 _“Exactly._ And that’s what I’m trying to say. Sometimes, it can feel like people only care about me if I can do something for them, or if they can sell some sort of wild story about me to the tabloids. But with you…” He softly chuckles, looking down at his feet. “With you, I feel safe. I know that you're on my side, and… you're one of the few people that I look forward to seeing. I like you, Simon. I really do. So, when I saw you talking with that model guy… it made me go a bit crazy. Because he was a thousand times superior to me, but I know that he wouldn't treat you how you deserved to be treated.”

My hands start to sweat, as a blush rises to my cheeks. “And how's that?”

“What?”

“How do I deserve to be treated?”

He meets my gaze, chuckling softly and scratching his jawline. “Come to my father’s wedding with me.”

It's not a direct answer to my question, and yet I know exactly what he means. “Really?”

“I mean, you don't have to if you don't want to…”

“I would love to,” I interrupt. Baz’s eyes light up, and all I want to do is hold his hand across the table.

“Okay. But on one condition.”

“What?”

“You wear that damned grey suit, and force everyone at the ceremony to fall in love with you. I need something nice to look at to get me through the day.”

I swallow the last of my tea, feeling his gaze land on my Adam’s apple. “Deal,” I say, holding out my hand and shaking his, allowing our touch to linger before I pull away.

It’s dangerous how tangible our chemistry is. I can feel it thudding through my fingers, my toes, my bones – travelling up to my brain, making me feel drunk. He’s all I can think about.

The wedding is waiting in the near future, winking at me, and promising me _him._ I know that I shouldn’t get my hopes up too much – for all I know, he could be inviting me to go as a _friend._

But the way he’s looking at me right now begs to differ. I feel special, I feel wanted.

I feel _alive._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Sorry that this update is later than I hoped - life has been hectic :( But now I'm back, and so excited to share this new chapter with you!
> 
> Your feedback is so appreciated, as always! Thank you for the lovely responses I have been getting recently, it really means the world to me <3
> 
> tumblr: https://rainbowbaz.tumblr.com/


	9. The Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The outfits in this chapter are based on [cattiekit's beautiful fanart!](http://cattiekit.tumblr.com/post/157331115076/ive-fallen-in-love-with-this-snowbaz-fashion-au) If you want to visualise their outfits more clearly, check out the amazing art now! I will also link to it at the end <3

I nervously wait for Baz outside the cathedral, playing with the sleeves of my overly-expensive grey blazer that he chose for me earlier this week. I swear I could buy a _house_ with this suit as payment. 

Despite my appearance being as smart as it can get – trust me, I spent _hours_ getting ready this morning – I still feel as if I don’t fit in. I adjust my pastel-pink tie and frown down at my embodied floral breast pocket – maybe I look too cute for this snooty wedding. 

Beautiful people keep walking through the doors of the cathedral, and it’s intimidating. Their hourly salaries are probably the same as what I make in a year, by the looks of their designer clothes and fur coats, parading around with their chins held high. It’s as if they are here to brag about their wealth, rather than to enjoy a wedding. I can see why Baz hates them so much. 

_Where is Baz?_ He told me that he would be here at 12pm, but a quick check of my watch tells me that he’s five minutes late. Alarm bells ring in my head – as Agatha told me on my first day of work, Baz values punctuality – and so I pull my phone out of my blazer pocket, frowning at the number of missed calls I have. They could be from Baz… he could have been in a car crash… _oh, God,_ that might be why he’s late – 

Oh. They’re from Penny. I should have guessed. I call her back, pressing the phone against my ear so that I can hear her over the obnoxious sound of posh people greeting each other, and the phone barely even rings once before she has picked up – and _oh my God,_ the sound of her screaming is _intense._

My reflexes tell me to hold my phone away from my ear, to avoid any possible permanent hearing damage, but I clutch it to my head, eyes wide in panic. “Penny? _Pen?_ Are you alright?”

The screaming continues, and I freak out – half because I’m scared that Penny is _dying whilst on the phone to me,_ and half because of the sinking realisation that I’m going to have to shout so that she can hear me, and all of the rich guests are going to judge me. 

I look around in panic, stalking off to the corner of the cathedral entrance. As I face away from the guests, I crouch down, trying to make myself as small as possible. “Penny!” I shout, loudly enough to make her stop. I sigh in relief, straightening my back and looking over my shoulder, to find groups of wedding guests looking at me as if I am the scum of the Earth.

“Simon!” She squeals, and it hits me that she doesn’t even sound afraid anymore.

“Are you alright? What’s happening?” I lean against the wall, facing the ornate doors, my entire body relaxing in relief.

She begins to laugh manically on the other end of the phone. “Oh, I’m _fine._ It’s _you_ that I’m worried about.”

 _“Me?_ What are you on about?” I ask, rolling my eyes although she can’t see me.

“You’re going to literally _die_ in a minute. Just you wait until you see him. _God,_ you won’t be able to _breathe.”_

I know that she must be talking about Baz, because ever since two nights ago, when she got me drunk and managed to make me admit that I like him _(God,_ so many regrets…), she hasn’t been off my case about the idea of Baz and I being together. It’s taking all of my composure not to melt and join in with her weird fantasies, because I am also starting to like the idea of Baz and I being together a bit too much.

“What do you mean? Who?” I have to feign ignorance so that she doesn’t think I’m too keen. It’s normal for me to get embarrassed when people know about my crushes – it feels so invasive and weird – but this is just on a _whole_ other level. Because it’s not just a crush – it’s something bigger. And that scares me.

“You know exactly who I’m talking about.”

I can’t deny it. I do. “Well, _okay,_ but why am I going to die?”

“Google him. Right. Now.”

I click off the call, typing in ‘Baz Pitch’, and alas, the ‘News’ tab is at the very top of the suggestions: ‘BAZ PITCH shows off HOT new suit as he travels to Sir Grimm’s WEDDING: IN PICTURES’. It’s an obvious clickbait headline, but it sure has baited me. I can’t help but click it.

And I’m so glad that I do. Because once I scroll pass the intrusive adverts and annoying pop-ups, there he is. Wow. He’s wearing a white shirt, embroided with a floral pattern, and _fucking black elastic trouser braces._ He has this ridiculous scowl on his face as he attempts to get to his car through the paparazzi, and I can’t help but laugh, my eyes turning into crinkles as I study the photo, because it’s just _so Baz_ to be wearing such a gorgeous outfit, and yet have the foulest, most unimpressed expression on his face. I can’t get enough of him.

I hear the fuzz of my phone speaker, and snap back into reality – of course, Penny is still on the phone to me, waiting to hear my reaction. _Shit._ I took so long looking at the photo, that I completely forgot about her – and now she probably knows that I was gobsmacked at how he looks. Before she called me, she knew _exactly_ what that photo would do to me.

I put the phone back to my ear. “Yeah, yeah, okay. You win. I am a little bit dead.”

“I knew it!” She screams, and I want to roll my eyes, but a smile is playing on my lips. “You _love_ him! You want to _marry him!”_

Penny continues to sing her childish tune, and I laugh along with her, telling her to piss off – but then my heart stops. Because the _real_ Baz Pitch is arriving, and he’s walking right towards me, and he looks even better than he did in the photos, and I think I might be sick.

“Sorry, Penny, I have to go,” I quickly mutter into the phone, ending the call and putting it into my blazer pocket. “Hey, Baz!”

He’s standing in front of me, now, and he’s looking at me in a way that I can’t really describe. His eyebrows are raised, but not in his usual sarcastic way – in a _surprised_ way, like he’s happy to see me – and his mouth is slightly open. It looks like a love-heart. Part of me wants to be cheeky, and lean forward to shut his jaw, but instead I let him gape. He paid for the suit, so he deserves to see me in it.

“Like what you see?” I ask, spinning around and grinning. His surprised expression fades, replaced with something more Baz – a raised eyebrow, and a growing smirk. Just the way I like him. 

“I chose the right suit for you. You look fucking gorgeous.”

My stomach twists slightly. “Are you trying to say that I wouldn’t look gorgeous _without_ the suit?”

Oh, God. Oh, God, _no_ – my words are coming out all wrong. In my head, I meant to joke about how he only said that I looked gorgeous because of the suit, but now it all sounds so _sexual,_ and _I’m definitely going to hell for talking to my boss like this._

I open my mouth to correct myself, blush spread across my cheeks, but Baz buts in before I get the chance. “Steady on, Simon. We’re at a cathedral. _God is watching.”_

My blush deepens, and I smile at him wryly, shaking my head. He knows exactly what I meant, but _of course_ he had to make this sexual. He’s _Baz Pitch._

“Come on, then,” he says, nodding his head towards the cathedral door. “Let’s get this tragedy of a wedding over and done with.”

I laugh, looking down at the floor as I follow him in. We’ve barely been in each other’s company for two minutes, and there’s already more sexual tension than I can handle. (Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.) (Probably the latter.)

This is going to be an interesting day.

\-----

It’s rare that someone like me gets to step into a building _this_ grandure. My mouth drops open at the white marble columns, light wood pews and brightly coloured stained glass windows, shining in beams of light across the room. Baz walks slightly in front of me, guiding me to where we will be sitting, but the front of the cathedral seems like light-years away – there must be thousands of seats in here, and undoubtedly all of them will be filled. If I didn’t know any better, I would think that this was a Royal Wedding, not Baz’s father’s.

My eyes widen at the sight of so many celebrity guests. “Baz… is that _David Beckham?_ Oh my God… _oh my God,_ Baz, I can see _Kim Kardashian!”_

Baz’s eyes twinkle at my shock. If I felt out of place before, I am astronomically out of place now. “Don’t stare too much. They’ll think that you’re weird.”

He’s right. Even though my inner fangirl is itching to get out, I instead focus on Baz’s back, and follow him down the aisle. Which isn’t a bad decision, because I can see his muscles moving through his shirt, and, well… it’s not exactly unpleasant. 

Baz stops at the row directly behind the front, standing back to allow me to squeeze into the pew before him. “After you, m’lady,” he grins, holding his arm out like a gentleman. I playfully roll my eyes, but smile back, relaxing as we both sit down.

Maybe this wedding isn’t going to be as intense as I feared. I know that Baz isn’t the most optimistic about Mr Grimm’s remarriage, but he seems pretty content right now. Perhaps he’s realised that there’s nothing he can do, anyway – maybe he’s even _happy_ that his father has moved on, and found love – 

“Fuck. I wish they’d get this shit-show over with, so that we can go to the venue and get some food.”

 _Oh._ Never mind. I guess I was wrong – he really is still grumpy about this.

I decide to bring the problem up carefully – I would hate for him to start shouting and ranting when _literal Kim Kardashian_ is in the building. “Hey. Um, how are you feeling about everything, now?”

He shifts back in his seat, frowning. “I don’t know. I’m still pissed off about it, to be honest. If you weren’t coming, I don’t think I would even be here.”

I try to supress the way that my heart leaps at his statement. This conversation isn’t about me, or _us,_ it’s about him. “Oh. Well, how do you feel about his soon-to-be wife?”

“Daphne? I have nothing against her. She seems nice. Poor woman – I have no idea what she could see in my father.” He sniffs, looking at me with a sideways glance, as if I’m about to laugh along with his sarcasm. I don’t.

“Baz, come on… he might show a totally different side of himself when he’s around her. You never know, he could be…” I furrow my eyebrows, trying to think of Mr Grimm in any sort of romantic situation, where he isn’t being snide, smug or furious. I can’t imagine it. “He could be… _romantic?”_

Resembling a three-year-old child, Baz begins to fake-gag, in sheer disgust at the mere _thought_ of his rather romancing Daphne. Of course, I know exactly what he means – the idea of Mr Grimm being a gentleman is both horrifying and unimaginable – but I can’t let him know that I sympathise with him. When Baz has angst-ridden meltdowns, it’s supposed to be _my_ job to give him a pep talk until he feels okay again. It’s practically a part of my job description.

Baz continues dramatically choking whilst everyone in the cathedral rises to their feet. I panic as the room falls into silence, and abruptly stand up, pulling Baz up by his elbow and swatting his arm with my hand to make him shut up. It works.

The guests in the row in front of us turn around, gazing towards the back of the cathedral with adoring eyes. I follow their gaze, and find myself looking at Mr Grimm. He looks almost exactly the same as he usually does – yet there’s something different about him, as he takes his time, slowly striding towards the altar whilst nodding at his guests. I realise with utter shock that he’s _smiling._ I’ve never seen him genuinely smile before – I’ve seen him laugh in contempt, but never _smile with happiness._

I look over at Baz’s profile, trying to determine how he feels. I expect to find a hint of softness, now that he’s seeing his father so happy. But instead, all I see is blankness. It’s alarming.

“Baz?” I whisper, voice laced with concern. 

The corner of his mouth twists into a smirk, and he raises an eyebrow, still directly following Mr Grimm’s every move. He looks like a predator watching his prey – hungry for revenge, hungry to _kill._ I gulp. Nothing good can come out of this.

“Jesus, look at him. He’s smiling, yet nothing in his face is _really_ moving. Looks like he got some fresh Botox.”

It’s a pathetic insult, and of course Baz is completely right – but he said it at his normal volume, in the vicinity of guests. It’s embarrassing. My stomach sinks, and I shake my head at Baz. I don’t want him to be too disruptive – it will only come back to bite him in the ass.

“What?” He asks, keeping his volume the exact same. Every fibre of my body recoils in cringe. I can feel eyes on us, when they should be on Mr Grimm. “I’m just fucking glad that I’ll never need Botox. Thank God I’ve got my mother’s looks.”

I hear a gasp, and my instincts are telling me to grab Baz’s arm and get us out of here – far away from this mess of a wedding. But that would be drawing even more attention towards us, and it’s embarrassing enough already. I leave it, hoping that Baz will leave it too.

And he does. He stays silent for the entire time Daphne walks down the aisle, looking beautiful, and soft, and frankly _rich,_ in her flowing white dress, hugging her figure, but spreading out down into a train that pools around her legs, trailing for metres behind her. I can tell that she’s a socialite – most people her age would feel hesitant about dressing in something so tight. But she’s confident, and she’s bold, and she’s _stunning._ I can see why it’s impossible for Baz to hate her.

Baz’s silence continues as we sit down, and the ceremony begins. His silence is comforting, at first, but it’s starting to worry me. I attempt to focus on Daphne’s vows, but I just feel too concerned about Baz. I can’t stop thinking about him, even when he’s right next to me, and it’s making my hands sweat with nerves. Resting them on my thighs, I try to calm myself down.

Daphne’s vows finish, and Mr Grimm begins to read his. “Daphne…” he announces, eyes trailing over her face as she grins warmly at him. “You're the love of my life. You're the only one.”

And then quickly, before I can even register it, Baz is reaching over to me, taking my hand away from my thigh and lacing it in his. It’s the second time that he has ever touched me, but it’s the first time that he has _held_ me. It’s difficult to breathe.

I’m slowly disintegrating. If he looked over at me, now, he would know. He’d have to know exactly how I feel.

Of course, he already knows that I have a crush on him. And I know that he’s at least _attracted_ to me – but that could just be on the surface level. I make an extra effort with how I look, nowadays.

But how _I_ feel about him. _Baz._ It’s not just a crush. And it’s not just attraction. It’s something else – something that I’m too afraid to think about.

I stare down at his hand, studying how perfectly it fits against mine, and all of my nerves are alight. I can’t hear the ceremony. I can’t hear anything. I can only focus on him, and his _hands,_ the blue veins and the pink knuckles, and the softness of his skin.

I look over at him, studying his expression, and notice that he is staring down at the floor. It jolts me into reality. There is a wedding happening, right now – and Baz misses his mother, he misses her _so much,_ and my heart starts to ache. I realise that he’s not holding my hand to be romantic – he needs my comfort, my help, my support. And I’ve not been sympathetic enough. He needs me to take care of him.

I break our hold, fingers grazing against his palm, and his eyes flutter shut, as he takes a deep breath. I don’t want to increase the beating of his heart, not now – I need to calm him down. My index finger traces the lines of his palm, my spare thumb stroking up and down the side of his hand, and I try to pour the energy from the warmth of my heart into making him feel okay again. That’s all I want. When he’s vulnerable, like this… it _scares_ me. 

There’s sudden applause, and I instinctively pull my hand away, instantly regretting it as the tingling feeling evaporates. Mr Grimm and Daphne are kissing, and everyone is standing up. I turn to Baz, expecting to have to reluctantly pull him up with me, but he’s already on his feet, clapping as if he means it. There’s not even a hint of sadness on his face – he looks content. He looks _happy,_ even. I stand up, confused, throwing sideways glances at Baz to check that I’m not misreading him – but there’s not even a trace of sadness left.

Once the applause stops, and the newlyweds are out of the building, I turn to Baz, confused. “Are you okay?”

He has a twinkle in his eye as he watches me speak. It makes me grab his hand out of reflex, squeezing it and letting go. Baz’s eyebrow twitches upwards.

“I’m fine. Really.”

“You sure?”

“Simon,” he says, brushing his hand against my elbow, and smiling as I shiver at the contact. “The ceremony is over, and I’m still alive. Now that I’ve gotten through this, I can get through anything.”

I have an urge to hold him, or touch his cheek, or kiss his nose. I ignore all three. “That’s great, Baz. That’s really great.” My cheeks are aching from smiling too much. 

He smiles back, chuckling softly. “Come on, then. Let’s go and have a pretentious lunch with people that we don’t give a shit about.”

I laugh, resisting all of my urges to touch him, and follow him out of the building.

\-----

The lunch has been eaten, the cake has been cut, the speeches have been delivered, and _everyone_ is tipsy. Which can only mean one thing – the first dance.

Although Baz keeps insisting that he’s okay, his current demeanour of holding a glass of wine whilst pouting is telling me otherwise. “Baz, let’s go and watch them dance.”

“Nah, I’m alright,” he says, taking an extra-large sip of his wine, firmly rooted to the edge of the dancefloor.

“I thought you’d found peace with this whole thing?”

“I have. But my _father_ can’t know that I’m happy for him. It would ruin our whole enemy dynamic.”

My eyes almost roll to the back of my head in exasperation. I guess there are some things that I’ll never be able to fix. So, for the remainder of the dance, we remain by the side of the crowd, in our own little bubble.

But once the first dance is over, and the fun music has started, there is _no way_ that I am staying at the side of the crowd. “Baz!” I shout, allowing my composure to break and my slight tipsiness to take over. “Let’s go and dance!”

“Piss off, Simon. I’m not a dancer.”

“I bet you are!” I grin, and he struggles to hide his smile. It gives me a jolt of happiness – I’m bored of watching him sulk. “Hey, Baz.”

“What?”

“You know, your father probably doesn’t even care that you’re over here, being all moody.”

He raises an eyebrow, grinning into the rim of his wine glass. “Does he not?”

“No! You’d be making more of a statement if you just _let it go,_ and showed him that you don’t give a fuck!” My voice softens, and I let my eyes meet his. He gulps. “Come and dance with me.”

Judging by the sudden grin on Baz’s face, and the arm around my waist, pushing me towards the dancefloor, my persuasion has worked. There’s some sort of fast song playing, something pop-y that I think I might have heard on the radio once, and I’m just about tipsy enough to dance to it without caring about what other people think of me.

At first, Baz stares at me as if I’m crazy, whilst I swing my arms over my head, jumping and twisting and spinning. But then he’s joining me, and we’re dancing together. We’re far too old for this kind of dancing, but neither of us even _care._ I haven’t felt this free in years.

The song ends, and we cheer, Baz jumping up and fist-pumping the air. He’s officially gone mad. (I love seeing him like this.)

And somehow, the music fades into a slow song, and it’s all a blur, really – but all I know is that Baz’s hands are on my waist, and my body is against his, hands splayed against his chest. He’s holding me close, and I’m breathing in his scent – the cedar, and the bergamot. I’m intoxicated by him.

I level our faces, studying the thickness of his brows, and the sharp greyness of his eyes. It seems so crazy to me, now, that I used to be intimidated by him. He’s just so lovely, and he’s _here,_ and he’s dancing with _me._

My gaze drops to his mouth. I want to kiss him. His hands drop to my lower back, and I close my eyes, swallowing thickly before opening them again. His touch feels _so good._

I try to meet his eyes, but he’s looking away. _How is he not as spellbound as I am? Am I the only one feeling this?_ My heart sinks, as I follow his gaze. He’s staring at his father, and his father is staring right back at him. I turn to Baz, and there’s a hardness in his eyes – as if he’s deliberately trying to piss Mr Grimm off by dancing with me. I feel sick.

“Baz,” I say, pulling away from his body. It startles him. “What the fuck is going on?” I want to scream, but I keep my voice at a mutter, so that we don’t draw any attention.

He laughs, and it makes anger rise in my chest. “What do you mean?” He licks those _infuriating lips,_ furrowing his eyebrows, as he genuinely tries to understand me.

I’m glad I’ve got his attention. Because he’s about to understand _exactly_ what I mean. “Are you only dancing with me to piss your father off?” I’m not supposed to sound so hurt, I’m supposed to sound _angry,_ but my voice comes out all strangled. My hands clench into fists – but not because I’m angry at him; because I’m angry at _myself,_ for being so pathetic.

“I thought you said that dancing would make a statement. Of course, I want to piss him off, Simon. It’s what I _do.”_

“Yeah, but, I just thought…”

“You thought what?” Baz’s eyebrows are raised, like he’s testing me, and I hate it.

“I don’t know, Baz, okay? I thought we had something.”

His eyes widen, shocked at my confession, and it makes my stomach sink. This entire time, I was wrong. He doesn’t like me – not in _that way._ He may have held my hand, and touched me, and complimented me, and given me those _looks,_ but none of it matters. I’m just another one of his assistants, something good-looking for him to ogle. And now he knows how deep my feelings are, and there’s nothing I can do to take my words back. 

Tears are stinging in my eyes, threatening to spill out, and I can’t let him see me cry. I’m humiliated enough already. _I have to get out of here._

I turn away from him, running _anywhere,_ anywhere but here, and find myself in the dining room, the exact same room where we were sat a couple of hours ago, laughing and flirting and – 

The room is spinning. I slam the door behind me, continuing to walk as fast I can – but I hear the door open again, and Baz’s voice shouting my name, and I can’t help but turn around. Because I’m _so fucking weak._

“Simon,” he says again, but this time his voice is soft. He obviously feels sorry for me – which is even _worse._ I hold back the tears as he walks towards me. Now that we’re alone, it’s even more suffocating. “Simon.”

“What?” I ask, voice strained with all the effort that it’s taking me to not cry.

He brings his hand to my cheek, trailing his thumb against my jawline. “I’m sorry, Simon, I –”

I interrupt him, pulling my head back to remove his hand. I can’t let him touch me – it makes me want too much. “Don’t apologise. It’s my fault for being so fucking _deluded,_ for all this time.”

“You’re not deluded, okay? I want to piss my dad off. But I also want _you._ Can’t I have both?”

I try not to get carried away by his words. I can’t tell whether he means them. “I don’t know, Baz. It felt like you were using me to upset him.”

“I’m tired of doing _everything_ for the sole purpose of pissing him off. This here –” He gestures between us, eyes wild with longing. “This is for me. This is for _us.”_

My legs feel like they’re about to give way, so I sit myself down on top of the nearest table, legs swinging over the edge. I can’t handle the idea that he could want me, like I want him. It’s incomprehensible. “What do you mean?”

 _“What do I mean?”_ He laughs, staring up at the ceiling, tugging fistfuls of his hair, before looking back at me. “You can’t just sit there, in that _fucking grey suit,_ looking like _everything I could ever want,_ and act like you don’t know what I mean. You know _exactly_ what’s going on here. Every day of my fucking _life,_ Simon, I can’t even fucking _function_ when I’m around you. You drive me crazy. So, don’t try and act all innocent. You _know_ how I feel. You have to.”

I gulp, anticipation rising into my throat. “Say it. Say it out loud.”

_“What?”_

“Tell me exactly how you feel. _Say it.”_

His eyes scan all over my body, as if he's touching me with his gaze. “Fuck words. I’ll _show_ it.”

Before I can comprehend _what the ever-loving fuck is happening to me right now,_ in one swift movement, Baz strides over, settling in between my legs, grabbing a fistful of my hair and capturing my lips in his.

My heart stops, and my hands fly up into the air, in a mixture of shock and uncertainty of what I should do. But then Baz starts gently nibbling my lower lip, and his hands fall down to my shoulders, and my heart starts thumping at lightning speed.

My hands eventually land on his hair, as my instinct takes over, tugging and pulling him closer, _closer,_ until there’s no space between us. I fully melt into it. The kiss is hot, and intoxicating, and _so dirty,_ and I can’t even stop myself from moaning. This is all I’ve wanted for so long, and now it’s _happening,_ and Baz keeps making these tiny broken sounds in response to my moans that I can’t get enough of.

Baz pulls away, and my stomach drops. This was obviously just an impulse thing – he didn’t mean it. Right?

I stare down at my feet, regaining my breath. “Sorry.”

“Sorry?” He asks, breath heavy. “What the fuck are you apologising for?”

And he’s lifting my head up, and his mouth is on mine again, and _fuck,_ even in my wildest dreams, I would never expect this to happen. My eyes are shut, yet I can feel tears leaking out of the corners – it’s all too much, _he’s_ too much, and I can’t get enough of him. I don’t want this night to end.

His hands are on my waist, and he’s standing me up, leaning me against the table, and my hands are wrapped around his neck, and it’s messy and it’s desperate and it’s _incredible._

He pulls away again, and I don’t panic this time. Because he’s leaning his forehead against mine, and I have my eyes closed, tracing patterns across his back, up his arms, onto his shoulders. Baz lifts his head up, and he’s looking at me, so I move my hands to cup his face. He leans into the touch. “Did that explain how I feel?”

I chuckle softly, brushing his hair out of his eyes and pressing our foreheads together again. “Yes. _Fuck,_ yes.”

“Simon… you’re the only one that makes me happy. Every day when I get into work, you’re the only person that I want to see. Ever since you _fucking walked in_ with that food bag and crumbs around your mouth, looking like a lost puppy… I’m so far gone on you. You’re always surprising me, I just –”

I silence him with a kiss, and curiously trail my lips down, skating across his jawline, and he hisses as I kiss down the veins of his neck. It’s too much, it’s _overwhelming,_ and I have to stop before my heart explodes. I rest my head on his shoulder, and he holds me. He understands.

“God, Baz. I’m just… You said before that you can’t function when you’re around me. I can’t believe that. You always seem so bloody _cool._ It’s _you_ that makes _me_ into a bumbling idiot. I can’t even get my words out clearly when you so much as _look_ at me.”

“I love that.” Baz sighs, kissing the side of my neck. I shiver. “And I know that people are going to think that I’m back to my old habits, of seducing my assistants. I can’t erase my past. But this is different. With you, I don’t _only_ want to... _you know..._ although that would be nice, at some point.” I chuckle shyly, bringing my head up to face him again, and it surprises me to see him blushing. “I know that this isn’t exactly the pinnacle of romance, but ever since you picked me up from the club that night, I haven’t been with anyone else.”

“Wow. Basilton Pitch, London’s biggest playboy, hasn’t _been with_ anyone for what… a few months? I’m impressed.”

He laughs, and his eyes are doing that soft thing again. “My playboy days were solidly over once you wore a grey suit for the first time. I’m a changed man. You know – most of my weird fantasies are only ever about sex. But with you… I’ve just wanted to fucking _hold you_ for so long. It’s weird. You’ve turned me into something else. And I want that. I _love_ that.”

His words are making every part of my brain align into a state of what I can only call _bliss._ “I’ve never felt this way before. About anyone. You’re making me go crazy.” I grin down at his chest, pulling his trouser braces and realising them, so that they snap against his body. He gasps. “You’d make a hot 1920’s man. I’m into the braces.”

Baz laughs at that, and pushes me back onto the table, and kisses me again, on my mouth, on my cheeks, on my nose, on my forehead; even on my ears. And I kiss him back, with every fibre of my being, over and over. And then he kisses me again. And again. And again. And again. And again.

(And again.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaahhh!!!!!! I am SO glad I have finally written this chapter and shared it with you all - ever since the idea for this fic was born, this chapter has been looming in the back of my mind, and now it's officially here! I hope that it's a satisfying culmination of the slow burn <3 Sorry that the chapter is a bit overdue - I've been very busy, and this chapter also took me a long time to write. I really wanted it to be perfect!
> 
> I also want to freak out about [cattiekit's beautiful fanart!](http://cattiekit.tumblr.com/post/157331115076/ive-fallen-in-love-with-this-snowbaz-fashion-au) The fact that anyone could be inspired by my writing to make such stunning art made me so emotional and overjoyed. I never expected this kind of response to one of _my_ silly little fics, so I had to pay tribute to the art in this chapter! Thank you again, cattiekit, and thank you to Bloodredblossom for making me aware that the art exists!
> 
> Only one chapter left to go! Thank you for joining me on this crazy journey. It's been challenging, and a lot of hard work, but all of your amazing comments keep me motivated <3 As always, feedback is appreciated! <3
> 
> tumblr: https://rainbowbaz.tumblr.com/


	10. The Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Quick disclaimer: although this final chapter seems like it could be leading to smut, it is just pure fluff. So, sorry for any disappointment! Hope you enjoy it anyway <3 <3

As Penny and I push our way through the crowds of dancing colleagues that are flooding the office floor, attempting to get to the bar, I can feel everyone’s eyes on me. Ever since Baz and I got together, although I only told Penny and Agatha, rumours have been spreading like wildfire. (I blame Agatha for being such a gossip. It was _definitely_ her.) 

It’s Baz’s birthday, and rather strangely, all he wanted was an office party, where everyone could wear a costume and let loose after a stressful month. It’s completely out of character for him, being the _oh-so-intimidating_ boss that he is – and everyone in the office is a mixture of overjoyed and confused. I don’t blame them – when I first started working here, if you told me that in the future, Baz would throw a fancy-dress party, I would have laughed in your face.

Once we finally get to the bar, I prop myself up onto a stool, and Penny follows suit, beckoning the bartender over. “Two glasses of the most expensive champagne you have, please!”

I raise my eyebrows at her, grinning and resting my chin in my palm. “Jesus, Penny. You know how to take advantage of a free bar. _Champagne?”_

“We’re celebrating!” She smiles, drumming her fingers against her thigh in impatience for her drink. 

“Are we?” I ask, frowning at her in confusion and taking my glass from the bartender. “It’s a bit weird to celebrate Baz’s birthday without him.”

Penny rolls her eyes as if I have just said something utterly stupid, raising her glass in the position of making a toast. “To yours and Baz’s relationship!”

“Piss off.” I have the urge to roll my eyes, but instead I clink my glass against hers. I know that she’s only teasing, but fuck it – why _shouldn’t_ I be celebrating? Ever since Mr Grimm’s wedding, I’m the happiest I’ve been in years. As the expensive bubbles fizz in my mouth, a rush of unadulterated joy and contentment rushes through me. Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself – we’ve only been a proper _thing_ for a couple of weeks, and he might get bored of me soon. But in the back of my mind, I know that this is something special. _He’s_ special. And I actually feel confident about where our relationship is headed.

“Speaking of Baz,” Penny starts, chugging down her glass of champagne. “Why isn’t he here yet?”

I shrug, lips turning into a smirk, an expression I seem to have caught from him. “He’s fashionably late. He has to make a dramatic entrance.”

“Ooh, a _dramatic entrance,”_ she laughs, looking smugger than ever. “Bet you find that hot.” I splutter on my drink, making her giggle even harder. If I didn’t love her so much, I would be cursing – I can feel a bit of champagne dribble trailing down to my chin, and it’s positively disgusting. Penny notices it, and wipes it away with her thumb. “Sorry, your Majesty.”

I grin, readjusting my cheap, crappy crown and flicking my fluffy, red cape that I bought from the fancy dress store this morning. I was thinking of dressing as Harry Potter, but this generic king costume was half the price. I don’t care if I’m in a relationship with one of the richest men in London – I’m _always_ going to be thrifty with my spending.

“You’re forgiven, Fairy Godmother,” I reply. Penny truly looks ridiculous in her overflowing violet cape and dress, clutching a wand in one hand and a champagne glass in the other. Apparently, she’s supposed to be impressing Micah in this costume, but I’m not so sure. 

In the distance, I see a petite blonde pushing her way towards us. “Here comes Agatha,” I jokingly warn Penny, and she excitedly turns around to see her best friend.

“Hey, guys!” Agatha grins once she finally gets over to us, twirling majestically to show off her Elsa costume. I don’t understand how she looks so perfect in anything she wears – she’s practically a fashion cyborg, tailored to perfection. “I think it’s time for you both to _‘Let It Go’_ and dance with me!” 

Penny and I groan at the horrific pun. “I’m not drunk enough for this,” Penny complains, but we still allow Agatha to pull us onto the makeshift dancefloor. Some random pop music is blaring, and I’m trying to enjoy myself, but it’s difficult when Baz isn’t here. As much as I love spending time with Penny and Agatha, I want to celebrate his birthday _with_ him, not without him. Where _is_ he?

\-----

Once my feet are aching and my voice is raspy from singing too hard, I feel a hand on my waist, spinning me around. My stomach lurches for a moment, unsure of who it is – but then it’s all okay, because I would know those hands from anywhere.

My eyes widen at the sight of him. _Baz._ He looks ghostly pale under the pink and blue lights of the dancefloor, accentuating his cheekbones and _that bloody gorgeous jawline,_ and he’s wearing one of his classic black tuxedos. He looks _perfect._

Wait – I’m distracted too much by his beauty. It takes me a few seconds of mindless ogling to realise that he has arrived at his _own_ fancy-dress party _without dressing up._

I narrow my eyes, pulling away from him and crossing my arms in mock-disgust. “Happy Birthday, loser.”

“Excuse me?” He mumbles, smirking with his mouth firmly shut. Something about him looks off – his mouth looks kind of swollen, like it’s being pushed out. It’s not normal. But still, I decide not to say anything; I don’t want to make him feel insecure on his _birthday._

I smile, stepping closer to him and poking him in the chest playfully. “You’re not even dressed up! Am I going to need to raid the company wardrobe to find you something to wear?”

“That won’t be necessary,” he mumbles again, and I’m starting to get suspicious. What is _up_ with his voice? Why can’t he talk properly? Has he had some sort of allergic reaction?

“Oh, yeah?” I continue to tease, although my mind is filled with questions. “Why’s that? Is your ego really _so_ big that you’ve come dressed as _yourself?”_

Baz raises an eyebrow at that, posing a challenge. And then he grins at me, baring all of his teeth. And laughter bubbles up inside of me, spilling out until my stomach aches and there are tears in my eyes. 

Because he’s not had an allergic reaction. He’s wearing _false fangs._ And he’s never looked more ridiculous, yet also strangely attractive. 

“What the _fuck,_ Baz.” I’m tempted to swing my arms around his neck, so that our bodies touch, but we’re still in the office, and people are watching us. I don’t know if Baz wants the rumours confirmed, so I touch his arm instead. “Are you supposed to be a secret vampire? Like Edward Cullen?”

He blushes, starting to giggle but struggling due to the fangs. “I’m one of _those_ vampires. From the show that you like.”

“What? You mean on Netflix?” It’s difficult to determine whether I’m hearing him correctly. It’s like his voice is being muffled by his extra layer of teeth.

“Yeah. Remember that night, ages ago, where you had to pick me up from that gay bar?”

“Of course.”

“The only thing I remember is how we were sat on a bench, waiting for a taxi, and you told me that you had a thing for vampires. And in my deluded, drunken state, I decided that maybe one day, _I_ would dress up as a vampire. If that’s what it would take to make you want me, then I would have to do it.”

I can feel my entire face turning the same scarlet as my cape. I want to kiss him so, _so_ badly, but there are people, and there are cameras, and he’s wearing those stupidly endearing fangs. So instead, I raise my lips to his ear, cupping my hands to ensure that nobody can hear my whisper. 

“Well, now you have me.”

As I pull away, I watch him shiver, and he closes his eyes for a moment, thinking about my words, before opening them again. His gaze lands on my mouth, then flicks up to my eyes. “Dance with me.”

“Always.” 

I take his arm, and we join Penny and Agatha on the dancefloor, dancing and spinning and ignoring the confused looks from the staff that have never seen Baz so carefree. It doesn’t matter what they think. We’re in our own bubble of love, and there’s no way that they’re going to burst it.

\-----

Many drinks later, the party is beginning to quieten down, as people leave to go clubbing in the city. The four of us are sitting on the reception desk, giggling at our own terrible jokes and drunkenly gossiping about colleagues to a clueless and naïve Baz.

In the corner of my eye, I see Micah arrive, and Penny grabs my arm, her eyes widening at the sight of him. “God. He’s here.” She throws herself off the desk, landing on the floor in a heap in front of us. We splutter with laughter as she lifts herself back up, straightening out her skirt and attempting to tame her hair. “How do I look?”

Baz scoffs. “As good as anyone could in that hideous costume. Go get him, girl.”

Penny’s eyes narrow at his remark, and her mouth opens and closes, as she contemplates whether to talk back to her boss. A few months ago, she would have been far too scared – besides, he is the _terrifying Mr Pitch._ But now, things are different.

“Piss off, birthday boy,” she grins defiantly, leaning forward and kissing Baz on the cheek before running to catch up with Micah.

Baz watches her go with a smile, and it’s endearing to witness two of the most important people in my life _finally_ getting along. “Hm. It’s strangely refreshing to hear an employee tell me to piss off. I could get used to this.” He looks over at me, as she fades from our vision. “I like her. She’s ballsy.”

And I look back at him, and suddenly this doesn’t feel like a casual conversation anymore. We share this weird, intense gaze, and it brings back my feelings of being desperate to kiss him. I lick my lips out of instinct, and he moves his attention to my mouth, watching me intently, as if I may fade away if he pulls away his gaze. All I can do is fight my impulses, because if nobody was watching, I would lean over right now, and –

“Right,” I hear a voice say behind me, and I snap out of the trance. I completely forgot that Agatha is still with us. “As much as I love third wheeling with you two, I’m going out.”

“See you later,” I smile, as she gives me a hug. “Stay safe out there.”

“You know I will.” She smiles, quickly winking at Baz and heading for the elevator. 

Once she’s gone, and there is nobody watching, I feel an electric touch on my hand. Baz is looking at me again. “How do you say, we…” He clears his throat, pursing his lips as if he can’t decide what to say. “Go and… check something out in my office?”

I smirk knowingly. “Why? Is there anything you need?”

I try to keep it cool, and tease him, but I stand up too soon, eager to go. Baz simply raises an eyebrow at me. “We need to have a meeting. Urgently.” 

We scramble through the corridors to get to his office, and Baz slams the door behind us, taking off his blazer and _finally_ kissing me. I wind my arms around his neck, attempting to be as immersed as I hoped I would be, but something feels off.

I open my eyes, pulling away. “As hot as the whole vampire thing is, the fangs are in the way.”

Before I even finish my sentence, he pulls the fangs out, throwing them to the floor and kissing me again, but this time with urgency, with _longing._ He moves so that I’m pressed against the wall, making my crown fall off, and my hands are in his hair, then clawing against his back, and finally settling on his hips. Our bodies are pressed together, but he still doesn’t feel close enough. My thoughts are running wild – his presence is suffocating, and I want _too much,_ I –

Baz pulls away, closing his eyes as I move my mouth to kiss along his jawline, down the nape of his neck, lightly tracing my tongue against the edge of his ear. He shivers. _“Fuck,_ Simon. You’re driving me crazy.” 

He steps away from me, leaning down to grab my shitty plastic crown, and puts it back on my head. “Do you want to…” He scratches his chin, eyes darting around awkwardly. “Come back to my place?”

My face flushes as I hopelessly nod, pulling him in again for a chaste kiss, and I drape his blazer over his shoulders, gently kissing him on the nose. It’s difficult to keep my hands off him. 

He gives me this certain look that makes me feel beautiful – a rare kind of look; the kind of look I have only ever gotten from him. It’s all I can think about as we head for the elevator, and my mind is swimming with thoughts about where tonight could be going. Where I _know_ it is going. It’s overwhelming to think about.

As Baz squeezes my hand, we hear the clearing of a throat behind us. My stomach drops. I would know that voice from anywhere – I don’t even have to turn around. It’s Mr Grimm.

“Basilton,” he says, walking towards us, and I quickly drop Baz’s hand, looking down at the floor. My hair is messy, and my mouth feels all red, so _he must know about us._

So, this is it. I’m about to get fired. Everything I’ve been doing for the past couple of weeks is a clear breach of our agreed contract. I trace my eyes along the beautiful, art-deco interior of the office, mentally saying goodbye. It was fun while it lasted.

“Father,” Baz says clearly, with no trace of emotion in his voice. I don’t know how he does it – he becomes some sort of vapid robot whenever his father is around.

“I just wanted to drop by to say happy birthday.”

Baz nods slowly. “Thank you.”

“And…” Mr Grimm shuffles awkwardly. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him look apprehensive about anything. “I wanted to let you know that I’ve been hearing rumours.”

“What?”

“About your relationship with Salisbury, here.”

Although I saw it coming, I have the sudden urge to grovel and defend myself. “Mr Grimm – I’m –”

“Don’t defend yourself, Sailsbury. There’s no need. I’m not going to fire you.”

My entire body slumps, as I let out an embarrassingly large exhale of relief. “You’re not?”

“No. Although, if your relationship is something _serious,_ I would suggest that perhaps Basilton moves you to another department. Continuing to be his assistant may ultimately harm your relationship.”

Baz raises an eyebrow. “You’re giving us _advice?”_

“Yes. I’m your _father._ And I know we’re rarely on the same page, but,” Mr Grimm sighs, clearly finding it difficult to be kind. “Since my wedding, I realised that I haven’t been as sympathetic towards your feelings as I should have been. And although my mistakes may prevent us from ever being close, you deserve a chance at happiness.” He looks over at me, with a slight smile. “I don’t want to get in the way of you and Simon. I don’t want to get in the way of your happiness anymore.”

I look over at Baz, and I can see tears glistening in his eyes. No matter how much of a _‘fuck you’_ approach he appears to give his father, I know how much his approval really means to him. My heart swells. “Thank you, father. Really.”

They nod at each other, and part of me wants them to hug it out, or _something,_ but then we’re walking away, getting closer and closer to the elevator, until it’s too late to turn back. I suppose with their fragile relationship, it’s all about these baby steps. Small victories towards healing.

I grab Baz’s hand as we wait for the elevator. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m great.” He smiles at me, softly, and all I want to do is kiss him again. So once the elevator doors are closed, I try to channel all of my feelings through one small peck.

“What was that for?” Baz smirks, looking down at me.

“I don’t know. Do I need a reason?”

The elevator doors open again, and Baz walks forward, smiling back at me as we walk out. “I guess not.”

Suddenly, through the front glass doors, there is a blinding flash of cameras. My body recoils. Of course, there’s paparazzi – it is Baz’s birthday, after all, and the media won’t be able to _resist_ seeing who he’s going home with. Instinctively, I grab Baz’s shoulders, pushing him behind the nearest pillar to hide us from view.

“What was that for?” Baz pants, looking at me and panicking. For a moment, I wonder if he’s gone blind. How can he not be worried?

“There’s paparazzi out front. Do you want to go out the back door?”

He narrows his eyes at me. _“No…?_ I’m fine with going out the front. I have a car waiting for us.”

“Yeah, but – _what if they see us together?”_ The last thing I want to do is ruin Baz’s birthday by outing us as a couple. He’s been fairly secretive in the office, so of course he won’t want the entire _media_ to know about us. And I completely get it. I’m so _normal,_ and I’ll ruin Baz’s entire image.

He lets out a chuckle, and before I can stop him, he pushes out of my grip, heading straight for the glass doors. I panic. All I can do is run after him.

“Baz –” I shout, and he stops in his tracks, turning around to face me with a lopsided grin on his face. He looks like a mischievous child, and it’s making me nervous.

“Trust me on this. Okay?”

I catch up with him, and once he smiles at me, _warmly_ this time, I feel calm again. It dawns on me that I do trust him. I _really_ trust him. Maybe even too much.

“Okay.”

He pushes the door open, and there is a whirr of sudden noise – shouting, and the clicking of lenses, and unintelligible questions being hurled into my ears. My instinct is to rush to the car door, batting away the paparazzi, yet Baz stays at the steps of the building, almost welcoming them, as if he’s holding a press conference. He looks oddly serene. I force myself to stay by his side.

One paparazzi’s voice shouts above the crowd. “Happy birthday, Baz. Who are you with?”

“A few months ago, if you asked me who I was with, I wouldn’t have told you. But not anymore. I’m done hiding,” Baz shouts, and microphones are thrust towards him. “This isn’t what you think. I’m not a player anymore. Not even close.” He looks towards me, with tears clouding over his eyes, and I think I might cry. “Those days were over once this man changed my life. His name is Simon Salisbury. He’s kind, awkward, clumsy, charming, and completely beautiful. And I’m in love with him.”

My mind is in a blur, and I can barely comprehend what is happening, before Baz scoops me up into a quick kiss, making my heart bounce into my throat. As he pulls away, and we head for the car, it fully dawns on me. This is real. He’s serious about us. He _loves_ me. 

I allow myself to stop and wave at the cameras. Mainly just to make Agatha jealous of my new position as a z-list celebrity. Because this is my moment. _I’m_ going to be on the front cover of trashy magazines.

But as much as Baz publicly announcing that he loves me fills my heart with joy, and as relieved as I am that we no longer have to hide, as he sits next to me on the leather car seats, I feel a sense of dread. I should’ve known better that to let Baz go out there, in front of the paparazzi, who are merely hungry for a story. 

He’s tipsy, and not thinking straight, and he’s supposed to be the Editor-in-Chief of one of the most prestigious fashion magazines in the world. He’s not supposed to have a high-profile relationship – he’s supposed to be above that. This could harm his professional image.

As the car begins to move away, gliding across the illuminated streets of London, I turn to Baz, moving my hand towards his and fiddling with his fingers in contemplation. “Baz… are you sure you did the right thing there?”

He looks me in the eyes, furrowing his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“Will this harm your professional image? You know… being with _me._ I’m too normal. It might go against your whole look, your whole _style._ I don’t want our relationship to harm magazine sales. Plus, I’m wearing a fucking _cape and crown._ Everyone will be so confused.”

He laughs softly, looking oddly content, and moves his hand to rest on the corner of my jaw. “Simon, babe. Don’t worry about it. It won’t harm the sales. After all, we’re a fashion magazine. And you know what they say?”

“What?”

His eyes twinkle, as his lips twist into a small smile. “Love is always in style.”

I laugh softly, feeling the panic seep out of my body, as I lean my head over to his shoulder, letting myself rest there. And as his fingers clumsily play with my curls, twisting them around his fingers, I know he’s right.

Love is _always_ in style.

\-----

I once read that when you are truly in love, you stop having weak knees, or shortened breath, or butterflies fluttering in your stomach. You don’t feel choked up when you try to speak, and your hands don’t shake when you see them approaching. Instead, you feel an aura of calm. Sheer contentment. With them, you feel as if anything is possible – but at the same time, you don’t mind if the rest of your days are simply spent by their side. 

Back when I was a teenager, and finding it difficult to comprehend my sexuality, I would have laughed at that statement. Because nothing about being bisexual was ever _content_ for me. I was restless – unsure of whether I should just pretend to be straight, yet feeling butterflies bat their wings against my fragile stomach whenever I saw a hot guy. To me, love meant downfall. Rejection. Loneliness.

But as I lie here, in Baz’s bed, with moonlight seeping in through the windows, illuminating our abandoned clothes that are strewn across the floor, all I can feel is contentment. Love isn’t a battle anymore – it isn’t an issue of winning or losing. It isn’t a subject of anxiety. It’s something uplifting, supportive, peaceful, _calm._

Now I understand how Baz could be so serene in front of the brutal flash of tens of camera lenses. Now I understand how he usually remained so _cool_ in front of me, even when I was falling under his gaze. Because as I feel the weight of Baz’s arm against my chest, and the soft, gentle lullaby of his steady breathing, contentment is all I can think about. We’ve come so far – from constantly arguing, to being unsure of how to act around each other, to giving in to our feelings, and simply _loving._ Our contrast is content; our differences make us stronger.

My fingers trace patterns against his skin. I steady my breathing to match his, and curl into his embrace, letting myself rest there without feeling a trace of anxiety. This is where I belong.

Of course, I have ambitions. And I’m excited to be moved to a new position at Natasha – I could be a social media manager, or a department assistant, or part of the PR team. I feel confident about my future.

But at the same time, I think I would be content with staying in this cocoon of warmth with Baz forever. Because whatever I do, I want to do it with him.

And now I can.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... here we have it! After over 140 hours of writing, plus countless hours of editing and replying to your lovely comments, my first ever series is complete!
> 
> From the very beginning, this series was the ultimate challenge for me. I only had the courage to post my writing in December, and when I began to write this back in January, I challenged myself to step completely out of my comfort zone - a series rather than a one-shot, Simon POV rather than finding solace in Baz, and in first-person, which I have always found difficult. It was a challenge, and at times I have been staring at a blank Word document thinking "Maybe this fic just isn't working" - and then I would get a notification that one of you had commented, and your support would motivate me to 'carry on'! (Sorry, couldn't resist the pun!)
> 
> This has truly been a massive learning curve for me. Your constant feedback has made me a better writer, and I hope you can see some sort of difference between my writing style as these chapters develop - it's been amazing, and I never expected this level of support.
> 
> Thank you so much, and I will see you after my exams, when I will be posting as many fics as I can possibly think of!
> 
> Love you guys!  
> rainbowbaz <3
> 
> tumblr: https://rainbowbaz.tumblr.com/


End file.
